Pieced Together
by Miri1984
Summary: Series of in-game drabble fics for Saoirse Hawke and Anders from Dragon Age 2. These have been going into Some Assembly Required, but I think they need their own story. I'll rearrange them soon-ish :D.
1. Chapter 1

The knife slid in so easily. His healing sense flared _wrong _for a moment and he had to actively suppress the magic that wanted to flow into the open wound in his lover's chest. It was too late, any way. He had pierced Karl's heart.

But it wasn't as though he were killing Karl really. No, Karl was already dead. The brief moment where he had been himself had passed, making Anders keen internally. If he could somehow keep Justice out at will, _be _Justice without the blood and death, maybe he could have kept Karl with them, the _real _Karl, not the empty body that fell at his feet in a pool of blood.

"We should go before more Templars come," he heard himself say. The woman - Saoirse he remembered, her name was Saoirse - didn't say anything and he didn't stop to see if she followed, just walked away. _I would rather die than be made tranquil, _she had said. _Help him, Anders._

It didn't feel like helping.

When he reached the clinic he was shocked to turn and find she was still there, along with the dwarf and the elf and her brother. He'd forgotten, of course, that he'd agreed to help them.

So had she, it seemed, for the moment.

"So, is this the part where you tell me you're an abomination?"

_I just killed someone I loved, _he felt like saying. _Do you really want to have this conversation _now? But he supposed he owed her one. At least she hadn't run away screaming as soon as Justice appeared. Most did.

Much good it did them.

"You're wrong," he said. "Though not far wrong."

He tried to explain. She looked skeptical, her brother, outright hostile (not that that was any different to how he'd looked when they'd first met), but she still didn't run away. Her eyes were clear and kind and her questions intelligent. He found himself trying to justify himself to her, even though, looking back now, he had been as stupid as a stump, really. But it had been _Justice, _who had been, when it came down to it, the only friend outside the Tower Anders had ever had, save Alim. The only friend who would never abandon him.

Couldn't abandon him, now. No matter if Anders wanted him to.

He wasn't sure, though, if he did. That first flush of horror hadn't quite faded, he still dreamt of the blood and the screaming, but not as often as he dreamt of that cold cell in Kinloch Hold and the endless months of _silence…_

He found himself offering to help her. _Maker's breath, did I just offer to go with her to the deep roads? _He missed _people. _Or maybe he just missed Karl.

When they walked out the door he turned back to his patients and his work and did his best to forget the feel of flesh parting to a blade.

When she came back a few days later asking him to help her sort out a problem she was having with a pirate named Isabela (and where had he heard that name before?) he agreed readily enough. It wasn't as though he were sleeping much these days in any case. It was fun, in its way. Like a good day with Alim and Oghren, although he was very happy to say he _didn't like _the elf with the… lyrium thing, it was unsettling at best to be that close to something that smelled like a potion but _walked _and _talked_. He found himself wondering if licking him would restore his mana.

It made him giggle to himself.

When they entered the chantry, Anders felt himself tense up, but it was more because he _thought _it should hurt, rather than actually hurting. They didn't go anywhere near where Karl had died _been killed by him _luckily, and the fight did a lot to erase the associations he had with the building. Still, he was happy to leave. He spent the walk through Hightown trying to work out where he knew the pirate from. There was something _very familiar _about the sway of her hips. Hypnotic too.

Hawke delivered him back to his clinic, after, walking with him, muttering something about making sure they didn't lose a good healer to the Templars, and he found he was grateful for the company, especially since the elf left them to slip into a _mansion. _Anders blinked as the elf bade them goodbye. Obviously he was doing something _very wrong _if an escaped slave had a nicer house than he did. Still, it wasn't as though he was doctoring nobles. Ferelden refugees trying to get to him here would undoubtably be arrested as soon as they showed their faces. And dispatching the elf now meant he had a good twenty minutes of walking with Saoirse Hawke, whom he was beginning to realise was…

…simply stunning.

He hadn't really noticed it when they'd been trying to help Karl, his mind had been on the past, but now, walking beside her, so easy and confident in her movements, with that evil glint in her eye that reminded him of Alim on a good day, when the demons and the past weren't making him violent or maudlin, and he found himself warming to her in more ways than one.

A year ago, he would have found something to say about her eyes, or the way she wore her hair, or her boots. Women liked it when you noticed their shoes. Now whenever he opened his mouth something stopped him from saying what he wanted.

No. Not something. _Justice._

So when she said something about making decisions with a true heart the part of him that used to tease Velanna about her ears shoved Justice into the background and took control of his vocal chords.

"Kind, wise _and _beautiful. You must have made a deal with some demons yourself."

Her eyes widened and he could see they weren't brown, as he thought at first, but hazel - flecked with green, and she raised an eyebrow. No blush, though, just a slight lift of the lips. He thought at first he'd just made a _complete_ arse of himself. Of course, that wouldn't have bothered him a year ago. He would have chalked it up to experience and tried a different line a few hours later. Or a drink. Drinks were good.

In the Tower, of course, he just would have asked the next girl who came along. Or the next boy. So long as they weren't wearing a tin suit, it was unlikely you'd get a worse response than "sod off".

It had taken him three or four escape attempts to realise that the outside world wasn't like that. Valuable lessons, those.

"I'm sorry," he stumbled. "It's just that… we've hardly met and I feel like I know you…" _Andraste's tits, Anders, you're making it _worse.

"Just keep calling me beautiful," she said, the lift of her lips deepening into a full smirk. "You can't go wrong with that."

"Oh, I'm sure I could get more creative," he responded, without thinking, and with the words _more creative _he thought of Karl and it was suddenly _all wrong. _He could feel the knife in his hands again, see the brand on Karl's forehead so clearly, remember the words he'd written, the promises he'd made. And with those memories, others started to surface, of blood and death and _how many more people will die because of what I've done…_

He all but pushed her out the door. He started to hope to the maker she wasn't going to ask him to go to the deep roads with her. There was little chance she wouldn't, though. She _could _heal, but she's not as good as he was (no one ever was, until Alim) and he was still a _warden _and she was too smart not to use him _and _his maps and _when _did he start wishing she'd use him for something more than his magic and his senses and _how _was he going to stop himself from plunging head first into a pit that would only drive him further towards the madness that is always just a few steps ahead?

Sleep. Sleep would be nice. Sleep without dreams would be better.

He knew that was unlikely though.


	2. Respite

He woke in a strange room and he was momentarily terrified. Strange rooms meant change. Change usually meant capture. But no one was kicking him, and the sheets on his naked body were smooth and expensive.

And there was another naked body, pressed to his. _That _was nice. That was something he hadn't had the pleasure of feeling for a very, _very _long time.

Her red hair was mussed over her face, strands falling over her lips which were parted. The gentle whuff of her breath made him smile - she was _not _an elegant sleeper, but she was gloriously careless, nothing like she had been in the deep roads, wrapped in her bedroll, tense and cold and hurt.

He shook his head. Now wasn't the time to relive things he couldn't change. Images from the night before took the place of unpleasant memories and his breath quickened as he contemplated waking her, but they had not slept much truly, and she probably needed her rest.

He felt more refreshed than he had in years. He could remember no dreams and the part of him that was Justice was calm and quiet, despite the desperate internal debate he had held at the door of the mansion the night before. He was _safe. _It was a strange concept. A feeling he hadn't had since before Alim left, those few weeks at Amaranthine in his tiny bunk in the warden quarters, amidst the smoke and the ruins. But this was different - this was _better, _because _she _was here and…

Justice stirred and he sat up slowly, other images intruding and pushing good feelings away. He was here because he'd given in. He was here because he hadn't been strong enough to resist, because he'd failed in his cause. He looked down at his hands which had clenched into fists, he felt the tide of rage and shame start to wash over him and he

…._pushed it down. _

She'd said she believed he could control it. It was time to prove her right.

He slipped out of the bed and pulled on his shirt and trousers, hoping that Leandra wasn't awake yet. The slant of light from outside made him think it was probably early enough for him to chance a trip outside - the water jug was empty and he'd been at the mansion often enough to know where the kitchens were.

He blinked as he picked up the jug, remembering that Saoirse had said he could _stay… _but he wouldn't hold her to that, not now, not after one night. He'd avoid the rest of the household for now, slip out before they were awake or after they'd left for the day. He wasn't averse to using window exits - he'd done enough of that in his time and he was still limber enough to manage. Life in Kirkwall didn't let one go soft.

His stomach rumbled, and he smiled again, remembering pie. At the door he looked back to see she'd rolled over onto her stomach, one arm flung over where he had been a few moments before and his heart ached. Justice stirred again, but there was something else there, this time, an image of another woman, similarly sleeping, blond and delicate. It took him a moment to place the name - Aura. Kristoff's wife. Justice's memories from before their joining didn't surface often. Strange that Anders had echoes of that other man, dead long before Anders had met the spirit, in his own head. There was a pang of longing for something never known and long lost that made him pause for a longer moment, wondering. He was past the point of trying to hold conversations with the fade spirit, it felt far too much like insanity and he skirted to close to the edge of that as it was, but he felt strongly that the previous night's activities may have helped his old friend far more than it harmed.

_Maker make it so, _he thought.

He didn't notice the figure by the fire downstairs until he was halfway down, but when Sebastian turned and faced him Anders froze on the stairs, jug still in hand, his bare feet sinking into the rich carpets.

"Andraste's knickers," he breathed. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Anders. But I fear it's painfully obvious."

"It's only just dawn, for the sake of the Maker!"

"I came to speak to Hawke."

_Did you now? _"She's asleep. How did you get in?"

"The door was open."

_Sod it, _he must have forgotten to lock it after he came in. He remembered, then, that Sebastian and Fenris had been with Saoirse when they came to the clinic the day before. Anders gripped the banister, suddenly angry.

"Sebastian are you here out of some misconceived desire to… protect Saoirse? Or are you just a colossal pervert?"

"I came here because I was concerned, yes," Sebastian had the decency to blush and look down, but Anders fury if anything increased. "Saoirse has gone through a lot, lately… I don't want her to…"

"What? Have an ounce of happiness? Live a relatively normal life? Make her own choices?"

"Make a mistake that will end up hurting her," Sebastian said evenly. "She's vulnerable after what happened to her brother. It's unworthy of you to take advantage of… of her _gratitude _to you…"

Sebastian trailed off as Anders padded down the remaining stairs so he was face to face with the man. Truly, he had little against Sebastian. He spouted Chantry dogma but he was no different, really, from the sisters or the Grand Cleric. All words. No action. _He is part of the problem. The Chantry is corrupt and complacent._

_Not to mention nosy and interfering._

He kept his voice soft, he had no desire to wake anyone else in the house. "This isn't some spur of the moment thing, Sebastian," he said.

"Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe."

Anders narrowed his eyes. "If I told you I warned her against this myself, a hundred times - _more, _if I told you I would die before hurting her, or letting anyone else do the same, would it make any difference to you? Or do you believe I am incapable of restraint because of what I am?"

Sebastian's mouth hardened into a line. "If you warned her against it why are you here?"

_Because I couldn't resist any more. Because three years of torture was too much. Because when it came to a point where I could have lost myself _completely _she was the one who brought me back._

_Because I love her. _

He looked down at the jug in his hands and heaved a sigh, running his hand through his hair. "Because she's not a child, Sebastian. She needs to make her own choices. Why, if we're so happy to let her lead us around Kirkwall, shouldn't she be able to make her own decisions about her own life?"

"You could have stopped this from happening."

"I _tried."_

"Don't be absurd. You didn't try hard enough or you wouldn't be here. You could fix it, even now. You should leave."

"I should. But if _you _had the chance to see her happy, what would _you _do?"

Sebastian fingered the buckles on his ridiculous armour. "I do not like this, Anders," he said finally. "All my instincts, all my training, tell me this will end badly."

"Are you sure it's your _instincts _telling you that, Sebastian?" Anders snarled, his anger roiling dangerously close to the surface. "Would you be here if it were Fenris, not me? Would you be here if it were Isabela?" Sebastian's eyes flashed and Anders nodded. It was always the same. He was a mage. He was an abomination. He was the enemy. No matter that Hawke was the more powerful of the two of them, no matter that she could best Anders in a fight on a bad day, he was _not to be trusted._ "We're all dangerous in our own way," Anders said softly. "You too. That I know precisely the nature and manifestation of the danger _I _represent… doesn't that make it better, not worse? Believe me, I know, now more than ever, what I'm risking by being here. So does Saoirse. You weren't there, in the cavern. Justice knows _no _mercy."

"And what does _he _think of this?"

"We are _one_."

Sebastian snorted. Anders felt the blue tide well up, watched as Sebastian's eyes widened in fear.

"You think we would be here, otherwise?" the voice was still his own. "Go, Sebastian. Believe me when I say I won't harm her."

_If only I could believe myself._

The priest clenched his fists but left, too afraid, he thought, to stay any longer. No doubt there would be more from him. But perhaps he had staved off the worst of it.

When he made it back upstairs, she was still sleeping. He debated for a moment, before undressing again and slipping in next to her. She murmured as he slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her back, fitting her against him.

"Anders…" she mumbled, turning her head a little as he nuzzled her neck. All thoughts of Sebastian and his warnings fled as desire stirred in him. He let his hands wander, stroking softly the smooth curve of her hip, the expanse of her thigh. He couldn't stop the soft groan that escaped him - it was like a dam had burst, all the repressed desire he'd felt for her, all those years of celibacy _maker's breath, celibacy! Him!_

He hadn't _ever _had this luxury - to lie abed with his lover with no fear of interruption or discovery. He would revel in it, and fight to keep it for as long as he could.

She began to stir against him but he kissed her neck. "Shhh. Sleep for now," he whispered and she relaxed. For the first time for as long as he could remember, so did he.


	3. Memories

_For people who are following these, I'm sorry they're not in order. I'm just plugging them out whenever they occur. I will re-order them when I've finished, I promise. In the mean time I'll let you know where they fall as I post them. This is set directly after Help - second in chronological order to all the others so far. I'm leaping about a bit, I hope it isn't too confusing._

* * *

><p>He was making poultices when she came back. He had seen her a few times, at the Hanged Man after Varric dragged him there one night, in Lowtown occasionally. She dropped off some of the ingredients he was using now for these poultices a week before, saying she'd found a source of elfroot at Sundermount and she couldn't use it all herself.<p>

It had been extremely welcome. There was only so much he could heal with his magic alone without exhausting himself and there were a few Ferelden refugees who refused magical help.

"I could never master herbalism," she said, leaning against the wall near his worktable. He smiled at her as he worked the mortar and pestle.

"One of those things they make you learn in the Tower," he said. "Handy for an apostate on the run, too. People will buy poultices from you without suspecting you're magical. I funded my third escape attempt with them. Got all the way to Lothering."

"You made it to Lothering?"

He winked at her. "Made it to Denerim, too, once."

"Really? Isabela said she spent a lot of time in Denerim. Maybe you _do _know each other."

"Maybe we do," Anders carefully scraped the mashed elfroot into a pot and started gathering other ingredients. "You're by yourself today?"

She nodded. "Varric's decided that Carver needs… education. Although what sort of education I can only shudder to guess. Isabela's investigating a job for some Prince of Starkhaven bloke. But I needed to see you and… I thought you might appreciate it not being in company."

He raised an eyebrow. When people wanted to see him alone these days, it usually meant complaints of the private kind. "What have _you _been up to?" he asked.

She looked confused for a moment, before her eyes widened and she laughed. "No, nothing like that. I just… I got the impression you might not have meant it, when you offered to help me on this expedition of ours."

"Ah," he picked up the small cast iron pot and slung it over the fire, adding water slowly. He was good at herbalism, like all aspects of healing. It soothed him. A menial task to occupy his hands. Alim had always wondered at him, that he happily made potions and poultices for the wardens. His reasoning had always been that it was better, by far, than going down to the deep roads. "What gave you that impression then?"

"Oh I don't know, the way you shudder in disgust whenever they're mentioned? Or the "I hate the blighted deep roads" conversation you had with Varric the other day? Or maybe it was…"

He held up his hands in surrender. "All right, I get the picture," he said, grinning. "I don't like the deep roads, but that's hardly news. I don't know anyone who does. Not even the sodding dwarfs like them, they just say they do because they're supposed to."

"It's more than that with wardens, though, I've heard."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Wardens sense darkspawn," he said. "The closer we are to them, the more… urgent it is. Kirkwall's been a nice change from Amaranthine in that regard. Vigil's Keep has deep roads right underneath it. We can _always _sense the darkspawn there."

"So if you come with us…"

"Let's just say don't put your bedroll near mine at night," Anders said. "I probably won't be sleeping very well."

"Does that mean you _will _come?"

"You helped me with…" a flash of memory, a face, a brand, made him stop and blink. "You helped me…"

"Yes, but that hardly ended well, did it?" He swallowed, a lump suddenly in his throat and her face fell. "I'm sorry," she said. "I… Carver says I never think before I speak. He's wrong. Most of the time."

Anders shook his head. "No… it's all right. Just because we couldn't… save him doesn't mean I didn't appreciate your help trying." He took a shaky breath. "If I'd gone in there by myself I'd be in the Gallows by now. Or dead. Or…" _tranquil._

"I don't know. You took down a lot of those Templars on your own. We mostly did mop up."

He frowned. "Not on my own," he said. "And that's the problem."

There was a silence that would have been awkward if he didn't have things to do, adding water, smelling the mixture that was now gently bubbling over the fire.

"I didn't want to ask before… but you and Karl…"

He shut his eyes. "He was my lover, in the Ferelden circle," he said bluntly. "One of the first people I met when I was taken there."

"I'm truly sorry. I thought he must have been… more than a friend. Not many people would…do what you did for someone."

"Kill them?"

She looks shocked, then apologetic. "I was going to say, not many people would be so kind. I'd like to think there was someone out there who'd do the same for me." He looked at her, and her usual smirk was gone, her eyes troubled. "When Bethany was alive she would have… and I would have for her, but I doubt my pig headed ox of a brother would see it the way we do."

"Your sister… she was special to you?"

Hawke nodded. "It was nice, you know? To have a partner? Someone like me? She was always so much nicer. Than either of us." Her face hardened. "It should have been one of us, protecting mother. Mother certainly thinks so."

He winced. "Oh, I'm sure she…" Hawke cocked an eyebrow and he choked off his response. "You're right, I wouldn't know. But your brother…

She snorted. "He's spent the last five years whining. Ever since Father died. Grates on the ears after a while."

The elfroot mixture could be left for a while, and he motioned for her to sit on one of the cots. She patted the spot next to her and he settled down too, leaning his head back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. The clinic was empty for a change - after the past week where he'd been busy non-stop it was a nice change to have some peace. "Your father was an apostate?"

She nodded. "He managed to escape the Gallows." She smiled, cocking her head on one side, eyes distant. "With the aid of a Templar, of all people," she said.

"Templars are useful if you can get them onside," he said. "They stopped assigning the nice ones to me pretty early on unfortunately."

She winced. "I heard stories about… what Templars do to mages in the Tower. My father was terrified Bethany or I would be taken."

Anders shrugged. "When any one group is given power over another there are going to be abuses," he said bitterly. Her face softened and he smiled sadly, shaking his head. "By the time I got to the Ferelden Circle Greagior was Knight Commander and he was… a decent sort, for a Templar. I was lucky. But a lot of the people I knew in the Tower weren't. Karl wasn't, although I didn't find that out for a long time. I think he protected me, actually. Taught me what to look out for. Not many mages had friends as… well informed as he was."

"I'm sorry. If you don't want to talk about it…"

"It's been a long time, since the Tower. I hadn't seen Karl in years - just written to him. And then I had to…" he swallowed, finding tears were threatening. Since Justice, keeping his emotions in check had been more difficult. Things that he would normally laugh off would drive him to rage, or tears. It had taken him months to act relatively normally and thinking about Karl was undoing all of that.

Or maybe it was because she was close enough that he could feel the heat from her skin, smell the slight hint of something fresh and grassy she must have used to wash her hair. He stole a glance at her. She was looking at her boots critically, as though they'd offended her somehow. Avoiding his eyes, he guessed. Embarrassed at his emotion, no doubt. He drew in a deep breath and got up from the cot. She caught his arm as he started to move away, though and he looked back down at her to find her looking up at him with an expression on her face that sent heat flaring through him.

_Maker, Anders don't do this to yourself. _

"Hey, I wasn't going to ask, but since you're here and probably in need of distracting - I ran into a Dalish elf in the alienage who's son is being chased by the Templars. Want to help me rescue him?"

He felt a slow smile spread across his face. "You really know how to cheer a man up, don't you?"

The grin that spread across her face was positively _dirty. _"I know a few tricks," she said, using his arm as leverage to stand. He steadied her when she wobbled a bit on the way up, regretful that she was wearing her leather gloves, desperately wanting to feel the smoothness of her skin against his own.

He let go as quickly as he could. "Point the way," he said.

"Last information led to just around here, actually. Fenris and Varric are going to meet me here in a few minutes."

"Fenris?"

"You don't like him, do you?"

Anders fiddled with a buckle on his coat, then shrugged. "No. Do you?"

She waggled an eyebrow. "There's plenty about him to like," she said. He flushed. "Oh, come on, you can't tell me you haven't thought the same."

He snorted with laughter. "Funnily enough, _no. _I have some standards. Unlike some of the company you keep."

"Oh, Isabela agrees with me on this score." She shrugged. "But that's beside the point. He owes me, and he's good in a fight. That's enough for me. He's better company than Carver most of the time too. At least he doesn't talk much. Any way, the information we have says the boy's probably in the hands of slavers, I would have had to tie him down to stop him from coming."

"Oh well, who you want in a fight is your business, not mine."

She frowned at him. "It's your business too, if you're going to be fighting with us," she said.

Anders didn't want to go into it, why the lyrium in the elf's skin made parts of him yearn, _it sings! _why the man's hatred of mages had him constantly struggling to control the spirit within. Just being near Fenris was a trial.

But she would be there. That was worth… pretty much anything. "I'll be fine," he said. "Let's go."


	4. Power

She was in the hanged man when Varric found her. Anders had poultices and patients to attend to - he didn't need to any more, but he was still driven to help the people in Darktown, and she had spent an exhausting afternoon with Aveline trying to sort out the clash of conflict mess the damned Templars were causing with the guard. She needed a drink. Isabela and Fenris were flirting with each other shamelessly and she was prepared for a long evening of laughter, but the first sip of ale was interrupted by Varric grabbing her arm. "Hawke, I've gotten word of Templars moving against Blondie," he said urgently. She nearly dropped her tankard. Fenris looked up at her, eyes narrowing.

"_What?" _she said._ "_Cullen wouldn't _dare…"_

"I don't know who ordered them, but I know they're on their way now," Varric said. "I'll get to Daisy, if you run…"

"Maker curse it," she swore, getting to her feet. Fenris caught her arm, however.

"You'd do better not to go, Hawke. We don't know how many there'll be, on your own you…"

"Come with me then," she snarled, then turned.

She was already running, not checking to see if he was following. Anders was supposed to be under her _protection. _Meredith wouldn't _dare _hurt him.

Unless this was some sort of… show of power. The bitch couldn't touch Hawke, not with the support of the nobles behind her, not when she was The Champion Of Kirkwall, but Anders… he was a thorn in the templars' side, a figurehead for the mage resistance, getting rid of him would hurt the cause almost as much as killing _her _would.

_Holy maker let me get there in time._

She wasn't in time. They were templars, she could tell, despite their rough clothing, despicable, to have disguised themselves as the sick, he would never have suspected… but they died silently, quickly and messily, one to ice and fire, and one to Fenris' sword, not expecting an attack from someone other than the apostate they'd been sent to kill. And they had been sent to kill him. The limp form curled in a ball in the middle of the clinic was still Anders, no brand graced his forehead.

Her magic flared, but her shoulders slumped as she saw the two gaping wounds in his front. Magebane, and a lot of it. His breath was shallow and bubbling ominously.

"No. No no, Anders… _no…" _she slid to her knees beside him, desperately calling forth magic. But the magebane sapped at her reserves. Healing spells had to be _that _much more powerful, needed _that _much more mana behind them to make headway against the poison. And she hadn't brought any potions with her.

"He is an _abomination _Hawke. He would only turn on you." Andraste _fuck _the elf for being just as fast as she was.

"Shut up."

"Hawke, he is beyond help. You exhaust yourself for nothing."

"Fenris, you're not the healer here, and so help me if you don't shut up I'll kill you with my bare hands." Her magic spluttered and died. It wasn't enough. "No! Oh no, _please…"_

"Hawke…" Fenris' hand touched her shoulder.

She rounded on him, tears scattering, one hand still buried in the feathers at Anders' shoulder, trying, all the time trying to find reserves of magic that simply _weren't there…_

"I'm so sick of your _shit,_ Fenris. For six years it's been nothing but mages are dangerous, what does magic touch that it doesn't spoil, mages will turn to blood magic if they get their hair pulled, and what have you been doing all this time? Sitting in your mansion? _Reading?_ You were willing enough to fuck me and run out on me, but now, because I've chosen someone who doesn't think I'm worthless, who thinks my talents are something to be proud of, you want me to _let him die_? For six years he's done nothing but help people, heal the sick, never asking for payment, while you've been festering in your mansion with your wine and your hatred and you have the gall to tell me he's dangerous when he's done _nothing_ to harm you or anyone else…"

"He almost killed…"

"_Almost_. I stopped him, in case you've forgotten. The one time I tried to stop _you_ from killing someone out of hand you completely ignored me and ripped her heart out of her chest. Anders _controlled himself. _You never have."

"I…"

"Fuck off, Fenris. Let me heal the man I love, and who loves me back, and doesn't want me to be something other than what I am. A mage. Free. You think you've escaped Danarius? I say his shackles are still firmly in place. And they suit you."

"Hawke…"

"Get out." She pulled Anders' limp form into her arms, smoothing his hair back from his face, watching the rise and fall of his chest as though it were the only thing keeping _her _alive. _I'm not good enough. Maker, help me I'm not good enough to save him. If only Merrill were here… if I knew what Alim had known, in the deep roads, I could do this. And I would. Oh, Anders, my love, I would, even though you would hate me forever for doing it, because I couldn't stand to be in this world without you in it, not any more. _

…_Justice, why aren't you keeping him alive? What use is a dead mage to your cause?_

There was a flare of blue. "I can help," Fenris' voice was hesitant as he held out his hand to her. "Danarius had me do this… sometimes. It hurts me. But if it will help you heal him…"

She looked at him, glowing blue in the dimness, and realised what he meant. Without hesitation she grasped his hand, sucking power from the lyrium in his skin and using it to replenish her mana, ignoring the gasp of pain that was forced from between the elf's lips as he sank to his knees. The healing magic that poured from her into Anders body purged the poison, forced the wounds in his chest closed and she knew they would scar, but she didn't care, he was becoming whole before her eyes and it wasn't too late and she hadn't had to cut herself and _sweet Andraste just let him live, please I don't want to lose anyone else…_

She continued to pump magic into Anders for a good while after she was certain the wounds were closed, even though Fenris was gasping and sweating with the pain she was causing him. When finally she released the elf he collapsed on the floor, still. She wondered, distantly, if she'd killed him. She almost hoped she had.

Anders' eyes fluttered open and she let out a breathy laugh of relief.

"Saoirse?" he said, then coughed a great gout of red over her robes. One of the knives had pierced a lung. If she'd been seconds later he would have drowned in his own blood.

"Anders. Maker's _cock _Anders I almost lost you." Hysterical laughter bubbled from her lips and she crushed his head into her chest, rocking back and forth. His arms came up around her weakly and she felt him chuckle.

"You're picking up gutter speak," he rasped.

"Picking it up? I invented it," she laughed, burying her head in his neck, breathing in his scent.

"Andraste, Saoirse, I've got blood all over you…"

"Fuck it. I don't care. Kiss me right now."

"I would, but you're holding me too tightly," Anders struggled a little against her until he was sitting up on his own. His skin was still pale and flecked with blood, but she'd never seen anything as beautiful. He cradled her face in his hands and brushed tears away with his thumb. "You're shaking," he said, a note of wonder in his voice.

"Oh Maker, Anders. Don't leave me. _Please."_

He blinked and griped her tighter. "Saoirse, I'm not going anywhere," he said softly.

"Promise me."

He leant his forehead on hers. "I promise." They kissed, his mouth soft and hesitant at first, but she forced him passionate, until they were both gasping and clawing at each other. It took them a while to realise they were still on the dirt floor of the clinic. Anders pulled back, most of his colour restored now, grinning at her.

They were alone. Fenris must have left at some stage. She found she didn't care.

"Let's go home," she said, helping him to his feet.

"I won't argue," he replied.


	5. Prologue  Stories

Ok, prologue of sorts for the stuff I'm writing little drabbles of. I know it's first person and it's out of order and all of that, but Anders wanted me to explain things, so I had to use his voice, and goddammit that man has a sexy voice that I can't not pay attention to, so here is his little bit of stuff :D.

* * *

><p><em>I am called Anders. Now. It wasn't the name I was born with, but then, I've changed so many times, even since I adopted it, and how many people can claim to be the same person they were when they first became aware of their name? We become the things people label us as. I was labeled "mage" far too long ago to have any attachment to the name I bore when I was born. My lover is "Champion" despite the fact that had she had the choice she would have turned her back on the fate of a city, wanting instead to protect those she loved. My closest friends have borne titles they never thought to - Commander, slave, pirate, guardsman, warden, malificar…<em>

…_storyteller. _

_Oh, and I've borne far too many of those names myself. _

_I never thought I would be one to tell stories. But I've been convinced that some stories are worth it. Varric once told me that stories had power. Varric once wanted to make me the hero of a story. I laughed at the time. "It's not a good story unless the hero dies," he'd said. _

_Perhaps my story would have been better if I had._

_All the stories that started in the Tower ended badly. Save my own, which has not yet ended, but has certainly had its share of bad, and Alim's, which I suspect will go on forever. Our stories both began in the Tower, though. What came before was not important. What came before didn't shape us._

_The Tower was a place where we told stories that had happy endings. Because dealing with the story as it was… well, that was unbearable._

"_Set the scene, Blondie," Varric would tell me. "Introduce your main characters! Hook your readers!" Oh, if I could, I'd tell you the story of Saoirse's childhood, of Alim's dashing circle career, of the Blight and the archdemon and the Arishok and the Knight Commander. But all I can offer you is my own turn of events, and I was… less involved than people might think. _

_I can still remember the fire in the barn - most people would say my story began there. But the beginnings of the story come from so much longer ago. A thousand years ago, in pain and war and death, when a single woman sought to end tyranny against her people and brought down the wrath of an empire upon her shoulders. Before that, when evil magisters corrupted the Golden City of the Maker and caused him to turn his back on his creations…_

…_or so the story says. I have never seen proof of it, and I have… a unique knowledge of the fade and of the time that has passed there. _

_When it comes down to it, we have only ourselves and our stories to rely on. Saoirse taught me this. Alim taught me this. Varric, bless him, taught me this better than the other two combined. People's _lives _are what matters in the end. Millions of people. Living out their lives. Beginnings, middles… inevitable endings. _

_So I'll tell my story, in the hope that it will show people why I did the things I did. It may be lost amidst the outrage and the pain and the retribution and the war. And I would not blame people for hating me for my role. I certainly hate myself enough most days._

_I will never be forgiven. But perhaps, if people read this, eventually I will be understood._


	6. Arguments

_This comes just before "Power" and might help explain why the Templars were sent against Anders in his clinic. Thanks for reading and reviewing, I love you all SOOO MUCH._

* * *

><p>"It's all wrong," she threw the paper down and he felt it like a blow to the chest. How can she think that? He's spent the better part of the last two months on this, refining it, trying to make it work, and she says it's wrong. He tried not to look hurt, but knew he'd failed when her face softened and she moved to sit in his lap. His arms came up around her automatically. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to say it like that… but it's too… impersonal."<p>

"What do you mean?"

"Andraste suffered at the hands of magisters, thus she feared the influence of magic…" She raised an eyebrow at him over the page she was reading and he shifted uncomfortably. It was fine, to write it down, but to hear it read back at him… She held up a finger. "First rule, write as though you're talking to a two year old. You've spent the last six years in darktown, you _must _know that everyone doesn't have a circle education…"

"Well, yes… but I was thinking more along the lines of convincing the nobles… it's not as though _they…"_

"You've lived with _me _for the last three years, Anders," her smirk was adorable, her hazel eyes twinkling. "You know the Boultons next door wouldn't know how to construct a sentence if you paid them for it. They _hire _people to do their reading for them."

He chuckled. "So. You're saying I'm going over people's heads…"

"In more ways than one," she put the sheet of paper back down on the table, leaning forward and giving him a tantalising glimpse of skin under her shirt. He began to think perhaps they could postpone the manifesto talk…

…a rebellious surge stopped him from acting on that urge. He'd started writing to stop the restlessness. It was an outlet of sorts, for the spirit within him, and he needed to continue it if he wanted to keep Justice sated.

He caught her hand and gave it a quick kiss. "What do you suggest then?" he said.

She canted her head on one side and examined him for a moment. "Remember the deep roads?" she said. "That night you told me about… about what they did to you in the Tower?"

He blinked at her. That was years and years ago now, but it came back to him. Sitting in the dark, wrapped in their bedrolls against the all pervading chill, trying to ward off the nightmares. Not nightmares about the darkspawn, but nightmares about other things. The particular sound a body makes, swinging from roof beams. The cold stone of blank walls with no sound but his own imaginings and the whisper of demons.

_Those _nightmares.

He'd told her things he'd never told anyone else. Things he probably _should _have shared with Justice or Alim or _anyone _before he made his deal with the spirit.

"Yes," he said.

"I never told you that was when I realised I hadn't been doing enough. All our lives we moved to avoid the Templars, Father was just protecting _us. _He had a wife and children, I can understand why he was so focused… inwards, but when you told me what the circle was actually _like…" _she leaned her forehead on his. "Well, apart from going from half in love with you to completely obsessed, I also realised we had to _do _something."

"My story… did that for you?"

She nodded. "You should write it out," she said. "The whole thing. And publish it. And then… then we should get the other mages to do the same thing. Ella. Orsino even. I don't doubt that the Kirkwall circle now is much worse than the Ferelden one when you were there, and that was bad enough. If people can put _names _to the people who are suffering, they won't be able to handwave it as not their problem."

Excitement claimed him and he got to his feet, gently setting her on her own and starting to pace the room. "I bet there are Ferelden mages who can write their own stories," he said. "If only we knew where the survivors of the rebellion got to…"

"Uldred's blood mages?" her eyes widened.

He stopped and gnawed at a nail. "No. No that's probably not the best idea. Although I know for a fact that two of them only turned to blood magic because… well lets just say that Templar who I got to? I didn't get to him fast enough."

Her face clouded. "When you said you were fortunate to Sebastian the other day… I wanted to kick you," she said, moving closer to him and wrapping her arms around his chest. "There are people out there who had a worse run, but Maker, Anders, don't think you're one of the _lucky ones. I'm_ one of the lucky ones. Even… even Bethany was one of the lucky ones. Not you."

He stroked her hair. "I should get started writing," he said, looking at the fire over her head. "I might ask you to look at it, after, if you will?"

"I should have waited until the morning to suggest this, shouldn't I?" she said, looking up at him with a sad smile. He blinked, suddenly realising that she was stroking his hand, pressed tightly against him, warm and inviting and _distracting. _

The drive was so strong. To be doing, not sitting, not…

…having some sort of a life that meant something to him and not just to justice. "I'm bringing him out, aren't I?" she said, raising a hand and laying it on his cheek. "You have to fight him… when I want you for myself and not for…" _the cause._

He drew in a ragged breath. He wanted to say _no _he wanted to say _you're just as important to me as the cause _he wanted to wrap her in his arms, kiss her, make love to her for days on end and never have this ever present, clawing, biting _need _inside him to be _doing _rather than…

"Anders?" He blinked and looked down into her eyes. "There is time," she said. "I'll still be here in the morning." She planted a kiss to his cheek and stepped back, heading to the bed. "Just try to be quiet? And come to bed as soon as you can. There are patients in the clinic and you need your sleep. No matter what he says."

_Maker's cock. No._

"Fuck it," he said, unbuckling his coat and letting it fall to the floor, rushing to her in two long strides and gathering her up in his arms. She laughed delightedly as he buried his head in her neck and barelled her into the bed. "Naked. Now."

"Yes _ser."_

* * *

><p>There are so many who want to tell their stories. The pamphlets litter Hightown, Lowtown, Darktown, the Docks. Everyone who can read is exposed, and people who can't have them read to them.<p>

_My name is Anders and when I was twelve I set fire to my father's barn…_

…_my name is Hannah and when the Templars came for me my mother tried to keep me from them. They killed her with a single sword stroke. I was five years old._

The Knight Captain takes copies of the stories to Meredith, who reads them and crumples them into small balls, shaking with anger.

"The Champion cannot protect him from me now," she mutters. Cullen hopes he imagines the glint of madness in her eye.

…_my brother was beaten every day for six months until he couldn't take it any more…_

… _I was the only mage out of ten to survive my harrowing…_

_One day he was fine, looking forward to his next class, the next morning they'd branded him and he never smiled again…_

Orsino debates changing his name when he writes his story and has it smuggled to Hawke. In the end he does, if only for the people under his care. Meredith has always been stationed at Kirkwall, it is unlikely she knows the details of his life before he became First Enchanter. He almost hopes she does, however. Anything would be better than this powerless _waiting._

_I was told if I didn't do everything he asked of me he would kill my family and make me tranquil…_

…_I didn't even get to see my baby's face before she was taken from me…_

Varric spends Hawke's coin like water, finding printers who will keep their mouths shut, paper, ink and supplies. He is uncomfortable. But he knows the power of stories. And Hawke is his friend.

* * *

><p>"She's absolutely <em>livid<em> Hawke," Varric was pacing back and forth. "Blondie's really done it this time. Of course the mage-haters are saying he made it all up, but I know better. The boy doesn't write that well, unless you did it…"

"Varric, _Anders _was trained in the Tower. I'm lucky if I can get a sentence out without a spelling mistake."

"I know, I know. But you've put yourself in danger. Or him. I suggest you take a few more precautions."

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "We're already taking as many as we can," she said. "He can get to his clinic from our basement, and the darktowners wouldn't let Templars within fifty feet of him."

Varric glowered darkly. "They're not above using less obvious methods, Hawke," he said. "Convince him to stay away from the clinic for a while."

She snorted. "You say that as though it's something that lies within the realms of possibility," she said. "He won't leave his patients, you know that."

Varric waved an arm. "Fine. Fine. You might want to talk to broody too, though. Isabela's been teaching him to read the stuff and it's making him angry again."

"Fuck Fenris."

"I thought you already had."

"You're a funny man, Varric. Funny and short."

"With a crossbow that could be pointed at you."

"You wouldn't kill me. You need fodder for your stories."

"Stories are what's getting us in trouble at the moment."

"It's _working _Varric. The people are starting to listen to us."

"Meredith isn't going to let this stand, Hawke," Varric tugged on one of his earrings. "You haven't been in Kirkwall all your life. The Knight Commander isn't someone you want to tangle with."

"We _have _to tangle with her," Saoirse started to pace the room. "You've read the stories, Varric, I know you have. For every mage who lives happily in the Tower there are six more who are miserable or dead. Or miserable _then _dead. Or miserable, then tranquil, then…" she couldn't think of anything to top tranquil. Last night she'd woken sweating from a dream of Anders wearing the brand. It had taken nearly an hour to calm her shaking.

"Hey, I'm on your side, Hawke."

"As much as you're on anyone's any way," there was a lot of bitterness in her tone.

"I like you. I like Blondie. I'd like you both to live out long, happy lives surrounded by little fireball throwing children. Antagonising Meredith is one way to make sure that doesn't happen."

"If we leave her be it will never happen either, Varric," she said sadly. Her friend sighed.

"I'll put out the word to keep a closer watch on the Templars," he said. "You owe me, though."

"I'll buy for the next year if it will help, Varric," she said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Shit, Hawke, you owe me for _ten."_


	7. Apology

The mansion was still a mess. Fenris may have been a slave, but he certainly wasn't the domestic type. She stepped over some fallen rubble and made her way to the room where he normally slept. He was perched in a chair with his shoeless feet up on a table, holding a sheet of paper which she recognised as Anders' personal story held close to his eyes.

She knew reading was still difficult for him. He despised anyone see him struggle with it though. When he heard her step (her boots were _not _made for stealth) he threw the page down and sat up, scowling.

"Hawke," he said. "What brings you here?"

"Varric said you were brooding again," she said, shrugging. "I wanted to know how he could tell the difference."

"I would have thought you wouldn't want to see me again."

She bit her lip. The last she'd seen him had been in the clinic. She winced, remembering what she'd said to him, what she'd _done _to him.

"Are you all right?" she asked finally. "I never asked… if what I did to you would have any lasting effects…"

"Do you care?"

She drew in a sharp breath. "I could say _no. _Would that even matter to you?"

Fenris swung his legs down and stood, facing the fire. "Why do you come here, Hawke?" he said harshly. "You never liked me. Even when we… it wasn't out of affection_…" _his voice cracked with bitterness.

"No, it wasn't," she said. "Luckily for me, considering what happened afterwards."

"I…" he spread his hands on the fireplace and leaned against it, as though he wanted to push it through the wall. "You don't understand. You didn't then and you don't now."

"No. But you never bothered to explain it to me either."

There was a faint hint of blue glow in his tattoos. She raised an eyebrow. "Would you even have listened? It seemed like… _minutes _between me leaving and _Anders _moving in."

"It was three months, Fenris."

"Ha!"

She sighed. It was so difficult for the elf not to rub her the wrong way. He was lucky he hadn't caught the brunt of her anger in magical form. But no matter what else he'd done, he'd saved Anders for her, kept her heart alive. Just thinking about what might have happened had Fenris not followed her that night made her shiver and sweat at once. "I didn't come here to argue with you."

"Really. The world shudders in surprise."

"I came to apologise," she crossed her arms and frowned, looking at one of the ruined portraits on the walls. "But of course I've managed to fuck that up completely."

"I… to… apologise?" He turned to face her, his green eyes wide.

"And to thank you. I owe you Anders' life, which is… far more than I can ever hope to repay."

"I notice _he _isn't here to thank me for it."

"I didn't tell him how I saved him, Fenris," she said. "I figured you wouldn't want him to know."

Fenris' eyes narrowed as he looked at her, then he cocked his head on one side, considering. "You _do _know me, Hawke."

She smiled and shrugged. "Six years of broodiness can't hide everything about a person. And I grew up with Carver, remember."

Fenris gave his short bark of a laugh and she felt a small surge of pride. It was always a pleasant thing - making him laugh. She remembered why she had been attracted to him. "Will you sit?" he said then. "I think there's more wine."

"I wouldn't say no to a drink," she said. Fenris poured a glass for her, the only glass he owned, she suspected. He preferred to drink from the bottle.

She took a sip, savouring the smoky flavour. Danarius kept a good cellar, of that there was no doubt.

"I said some things… I probably shouldn't have in the clinic, Fenris," she said once the first few sips had warmed her belly. The elf cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Some?" he said.

"Yes. Some."

"You were… upset."

She snorted. "That's one way of putting it."

"I… I've been reading the stories," he said then, glancing at the desk where the sheafs of Anders' manifesto lay. "It's still slow going for me. And I still don't believe mages can be free."

"Can be free or deserve to be free?"

Fenris frowned. "You are dangerous," he said. She wasn't sure, then, if he meant mages or just _her._

"So are you," she pointed out. "But I thought we'd agreed to disagree about this. And you still haven't turned us in."

His eyes flashed in anger. "You think I…" he shook his head, took a breath. "Of course you do. I haven't given you any reason to think otherwise. But I would never turn you in Hawke. Or him. I know you care for him, and I would never knowingly hurt you. Not again."

She blinked, caught off guard by a rush of feeling, shocked to feel the prick of tears in her eyes. Fenris had always been there, always fought by her side. She'd never really stopped to think about why she could inspire so much loyalty when she embodied pretty much everything he despised.

"If it's any consolation I was pretty determined to hurt _myself _back then," she said finally. "I'm sorry you got caught in the crossfire."

"He doesn't deserve you," Fenris said forcefully.

She tugged at her hair and sighed. "I don't deserve him either," she said. "We rarely get what we deserve, Fenris. Surely you know that by now."

The small resigned smile on his face told her more than words could have. "This was meant to be a thank you and an apology," she said after a long pause where they both drank deeply. "What say we move to the Hanged Man and turn it into a drinking competition instead? I know Varric's down there already. Isabela too."

"They both _live _there."

"All the more reason to join them, they have tabs."

"What about Anders?"

She frowned and looked down. The attack had hurt him. So much. Not because of what they'd done to _him _specifically - but the others who'd been targeted. The mages whose stories weren't anonymous enough, the one group of printers who'd had their livelihood taken away and their equipment burned, the Templar on _every _street corner of the city. Aveline was up in arms, raging that Anders had made her life practically impossible, and his earnest arguments that it wasn't _he _who had made the Templars so damned vicious were falling on increasingly deaf ears.

Despite that Saoirse had seen it as a victory of sorts, Anders was crushed that this victory had cost lives, made good mages tranquil, sent more to scampering to darktown under the weight of poverty and persecution. She knew that Justice was riding him harder than ever. He barely slept, she had to force him to eat…

…only when she could convince him to make love to her would he show signs of the old Anders. He would be sated for an hour, maybe two, before he would leap up from the bed and go to his books. Searching, searching, all the time searching, although what for she had never been able to get a straight answer on.

"He's busy," she said to Fenris, shortly. The elf raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the issue, and she was grateful. For a while, she would forget about him and drink with friends.


	8. Explanations

_Set just after Apology._

* * *

><p>She got home, late, smelling of ale and smoke, a little unsteady on her feet. She opened the door to their room to find him at the desk, as she half knew he would be, squinting at a book in the dim light of only one candle. She casually lit the lamp above him with a wave of her hand and he looked up, startled, shutting the book furtively and brushing hair out of his eyes.<p>

"That was quick!" he said, smiling and standing.

She frowned. "It's past midnight," she said, slurring slightly. He winced. "What were you working on?"

"Oh, research," he said, waving a hand and stepping closer. "You, my love, are drunk."

She nodded. "I fucking hope so. Otherwise I'd be worried about the room spinning." He lifted a hand, blue light starting, but she slapped it away. "No," she said. "If I wanted to be sober I wouldn't have spent so much money getting drunk."

He let the light fizzle out and cupped her cheek in his hand instead. "Something's wrong," he said softly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. She leaned into his touch, sighing, feeling desire stirring. He was so…

"Yes," she said, catching his hand and pulling it to her mouth. She kissed it, breathed in the scent of ink and paper on his fingers. "Why don't you tell me what it is?" she said then. His hand tensed.

"Saoirse…"

"Nothing's wrong with _me. _I'm fine. But you…" she dropped his hand and stepped away from him, stumbling a little. When she reached the wall, she turned back and leaned against it, hands behind her back, feet out for balance. "What are you doing all day, Anders? When you're not at the clinic you're here, or out looking for books… what could you possibly be _doing…"_

"Do you want to have this conversation _now?" _he asked, eyes narrowing. "You can barely stand up straight."

"Yes I want to have it _now," _she said. "I've been wanting to have it for _weeks. _Ever since we got word of the fire in the printers. Had to get drunk to get up the courage to…"

His face fell a little and her heart lurched. Maker damn him, why was he so… _open _and so _secretive _at the same time? "You were afraid of me?" he asked softly.

"No! Not of you. _Never _of you. I just… I didn't know how to ask. How can I ask you what's going on in your head? Half the time I don't think _you _know what's going on in your head. I just…" she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I just want to know you're all right."

He was right in front of her, suddenly, breath warm on her cheek, his hands stroking her hair, pulling it loose from its tie, then gently moving her hands away from her face and holding them in his. "I'm here," he said. "I'm right here and I'm _fine."_

She blinked up at him. "No you're not," she said bluntly. "What are you _doing _all the time, Anders?"

"I don't want to tell you," he said, eyes anguished. She pressed her lips together and tried to push him away, but his grip on her hands tightened and he pushed her more strongly into the wall. "No… Saoirse, let me explain… I'm trying to find something…" he wet his lips with his tongue… "I don't want you to get your hopes up for something that might not even exist…"

"Anders just fucking _tell me."_

He closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm trying to find a way to separate us," he said finally. "Me and Justice. Some way to send him back to the fade."

There was a long silence. The words wouldn't process. Separate them. "All the books are in Tevinter," she said then. "I thought you were hiding something from me. Something… worse…"

He winced. "I didn't want to tell you. I didn't think it was possible… I'm still not sure. But if there is a way, the Tevinters will know it."

"Let me help you then," she said. He laughed.

"I'd have to teach you to read Tevinter, my love. It's not much fun and neither of us have the time."

She let herself smile a little, then. His face smoothed in relief and he bent his head to kiss her. She let herself melt against him as his breath quickened and her heart started to thud against her chest. "Maker," he breathed when they parted. "You are _really _drunk."

She laughed and pushed back at him. "I have to get drunk for both of us now," she said.

His eyes narrowed and she felt heat rush to her cheeks at the intensity in his eyes. "Drunk is good," he said then, lifting her hands which were still clasped in his, above her head, capturing both her wrists in one of his hands and pressing closer to her, trailing kisses down her arm to her cheek. "Drunk dulls the senses," he said in her ear. "It'll take you longer."

She felt the heat of his words right down to the pit of her stomach. His hands found their way under her shirt, and they were cold at first, making her shiver as they trailed upwards to her breast and teased her nipple under the thin cloth of her breastband. His slender body, wiry and strong, was completely pressed against hers, wearing only the loose shirt and breeches he wore around the house rather than his bulky robes. She could feel the bones of his hip against hers, the heat and hardness of his cock through the cloth of their clothes. She tried to curl against him, but he was as strong as steel, pressing her into the wall, pinning her completely as he worked his mouth over her neck, his hand over her breast and stomach. He slipped his fingers down her skirt, then, and between her thighs, teasing lightly across her curls before he plunged his fingers upwards and into her. Her head slammed back against the wall and she gasped as he grinned, moving his fingers rapidly for a few seconds, before withdrawing them and slowly licking each one.

She groaned and struggled weakly against his grip on her wrists. "Anders…" she said.

"Mmm?" he said, his mouth busy, dipping down lower to trace her collarbone.

"_Anders."_

He held her wrists firmly and deftly undid her shirt, letting cold air brush over her skin. It was _very _cold air and she felt the tingle of magic from his free hand raising gooseflesh all over her. Again, she struggled against his grip. He lightly lifted her wrists from the wall and slammed them back into place, firmly, just on this side of pain. She groaned.

He tugged her skirt down then, so it was trapping her knees, and yanked down her smalls. The cold air only served to emphasise how wet she was as he worked his free hand back into her, using his thumb and fingers in ways that left her gasping.

He whispered in her ear, what he intended to do, what he would make her do, a list of promises of acts that made her weak at the knees. When he lifted her from the wall and took her to the bed she allowed herself to drown in him, in the sensations he could pull from her body. He was right, it _did _take her longer, she was sweetly aching and overwhelmed with sensation by the time she finally called his name and collapsed back onto the bed. Only then did he let blue light flare over her head, soothing away the effects of the alcohol, ensuring she wouldn't pay for her indulgence the next day and nudging her towards dreams and the fade.

"Sleep now, my love," he said softly as her eyes closed, and if she'd been more aware she would have taken greater note of the sadness in his words. Almost she didn't catch his last whispered phrase as he gently smoothed hair away from her sweaty forehead.

"I'm so sorry."

* * *

><p>He lay curled around her, awake and unlikely to find sleep. It was as though he had a fist around his heart, squeezing it to the point of shattering. Making love to her, burying himself in her depths, drawing out her moans and shouts of pleasure had staved off the guilt for a time, but once she was sated - and he'd been certain she was <em>very <em>sated - it all came rushing back to him. _I lied to her. _

_And I'm going to keep lying to her._

He forced himself to spend the whole night next to her, cradling her in his arms when she turned to him halfway through the night, mumbling in her dreams. The burning desire to be getting started now that he knew what he must do was painful to resist. Staying here with her was penance, of a kind, but it was a penance he undertook willingly. He vowed she wouldn't wake without him again, until the end.

It wouldn't be long now.


	9. Into the Deep

_Set obviously, just at the start of the Deep Roads mission._

* * *

><p>He thought he'd done pretty well, when it came down to it. The rickety stairs down to the cavern entrance were negotiated without incident. It was dark, thank the Maker, when they got there, and Bartrand thought it would be better to make camp inside rather than out considering rain was threatening, so there was no sudden loss of light to unsettle him. He kept a spell wisp going, in any case, as did Saoirse. It was embarrassing how much he relied on those two spots of light.<p>

They set up camp and Anders busied himself with his bedroll. It was new, as was his pack. Saoirse had dropped them by for him a few days before they left. He'd tried to refuse them, but she'd put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm not taking you down there with sub-standard equipment, Anders," she'd said. He'd winced, remembering the gear he'd taken with him to the Wounded Coast, and nodded.

At least he still had Spellfury. The one thing that had managed to survive the trip from Amaranthine. Saoirse had eyed the staff with interest soon as she saw it. It wasn't the same as the one he used within the city walls - it was too obviously powerful, even a normal person could feel the itch of magic when it was in the same room as them. He had it locked in a runed chest in his room at the clinic - a chest he'd painstakingly enchanted himself when he first arrived. Having it with him made things seem more normal, somehow, even though he'd only had it for the last few months he was a warden. Alim had given it to him at the gates of the city when he'd been almost certain they were going to die. Well, he and Alim and Nate, any way.

Justice had already been dead.

He set the staff next to his bedroll within easy reach. The deep roads were never predictable, never safe. They would do well to keep their weapons close at all times.

It was only once they were sorting out watches that he started to feel the oppressive weight of the walls and ceiling as a kind of physical ache. It didn't help that he could sense lyrium in the walls too. _There_ was a side effect to his melding he hadn't anticipated. When they'd decided the party to descend into the deep roads he'd been very pleased Saoirse wasn't bringing Fenris with them. He liked Carver a lot more than the elf, which if he was being truthful, wasn't saying a great deal. Still, the only headache he'd be getting from the younger Hawke would be because he was an ignorant blockhead with a chip on his shoulder, not from esoteric lyrium markings that buzzed in his head like chantry bells and made it impossible to concentrate.

He busied himself with making a fire for them. Saoirse came up next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder once the sticks were blazing and emitting faint warmth. "Do you sense any darkspawn?" she asked softly. He shook his head, clenching his jaw.

"There are some," he said tightly. "But they're far enough away for it not to be a problem."

She bit her lip, looking nervous, and he suddenly remembered that her sister had been killed by an ogre, not to mention her entire village destroyed during the Blight. It was hard to concentrate, though, hard to think like a normal person - far more than usual, with the darkness and the _smell _and the familiar scritching at the back of his consciousness he thought he'd never have to deal with again. It was very, very hard to remember that there were other people with him who _didn't _feel the same way he did - the deep roads was a _warden _place, somewhere he'd spent very few good times and many, many miserable ones and to be surrounded by people who weren't wardens was at the same time both a relief and a constant source of worry. The taint could kill any one of them. He truly hoped Saoirse and Bartrand together had taken proper precautions.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the almost-sound that was echoing through it. He cast a quick spell that left him lightheaded but more calm, cursing himself for not being strong enough. Maker, the lyrium was going to be more difficult to cope with than the sodding claustrophobia.

"Magic?" Saoirse said. He'd forgotten she was there.

He pressed his lips together, the disapproval of his mentors in the tower, the disapproval of… well the lack of disapproval from Alim which had somehow been _worse…_

"I'm sorry," he said, running his hand through his hair. "This is worse than I thought it would be."

She sat crosslegged next to him, the green skirt of her armour-like robes touching his leg. "Worse how?" she said. "The scenery? The smell? The darkspawn? Or the cheery company?"

He managed a smile at that. He was grateful he hadn't had to do any of the dealings with Varric's brother. Not having had siblings of his own, he was somewhat bemused that two people who had the same parents could be so different in personality.

There was a frustrated curse from the other side of the camp and he saw Carver struggling with his bedroll. _Then again, maybe I shouldn't be so surprised._

"I… have issues with being underground," he said. "Or in a confined space. The magic helps dull that a bit. But I haven't been to the deep roads since Justice and I… and… well…"

"Justice doesn't like it either?"

He grimaced. "Precisely the opposite, actually. Justice loves lyrium… _loved _lyrium. The Commander gave him a ring made of it once. We had to leave it behind - too dangerous for me to carry."

She looked puzzled. "Loves lyrium? As in…" he could see her shrinking a little from him and he wondered at it, that his status as an abomination could cause her no fear, but the possibility that he might be drug addict made her wary.

"No. Not like that. He used to say it… sang."

She looked fascinated then. _"Sang?"_

Anders shrugged. "Let's just say if what I can hear is singing, the fade is desperately short of good music teachers."

She _guffawed. _He'd never seen a woman do that before - except Sigrun when she'd had too many ales. Saoirse's chortle sounded somewhere between a pig and a horse and he couldn't help the grin that spread over his face at hearing it. It was a laugh of someone who didn't care what her laugh sounded like. "So, the lyrium down here is… "

"Singing. Yes. And I imagine it'll only get worse. Most of the lyrium here is buried pretty deep - miners would have gotten to it otherwise, especially this close to Kirkwall. When you get deeper into the roads sometimes there's lyrium just lying about… "

"Singing at you?" she said.

"Singing to Justice, any way."

"What does it sound like?"

"It doesn't sound like anything I could easily describe. It just gives me a headache."

She got up suddenly and moved behind him, kneeling close enough that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck.

"What are you doing?"

"My father taught me some healing," she said. "I'm pretty good at it. Not as good as you, but I know sometimes someone else's magic is better than your own."

Before he could object he felt her cool hands on his neck and the tingle of her magic on the back of his tongue. Alim had healed him, many times as a warden, but once he had gone, Anders had been the only mage warden in Amaranthine. It had been over a year since he'd felt the touch of another's magic, and he felt his breath leave him in a rush as it started to come back to him.

Alim's magic had peculiarities to it that Saoirse's lacked. Completely. Saoirse's felt like sunlight, and warm water, and tasted like new baked bread. There was an edge of wildness to it that spoke more to him about how she had been trained than anything she had said could have clarified for him, something light and _natural _that made him want to stretch like Pounce in the sunlight. When her fingers started to knead at the muscles in his neck, however, he wanted to groan aloud in pleasure.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched by another person, when it wasn't a patient grabbing at him in pain or desperation, or an enemy trying to hurt him. It took all his willpower not to lean into her touch, shut his eyes and fantasise that this was something he _deserved…_

That way danger lay. But he couldn't bring himself to move forward, ask her to stop, not with the walls so close, not when what she was doing was muffling the screech of the lyrium and the constant itching of the darkspawn.

"Maker," he breathed. "That's good."

Her hands stilled briefly and he felt a slight tremble in them before he heard her take a breath and continue - firm sweeps down to his collarbone and back up, barely touching now, just letting a gentle pulse of magic sink into his skin.

_I have to tell her to stop. _It was very, very difficult to lift his hand and still one of hers. "Thank you," he said. Looking up and letting go of her hand, quickly - so much more quickly than he would have liked. Her other hand stayed at his neck and he could feel her trace the line of one of his veins and _he had to stop her…_

"I can do more…" she was saying, with a slight smile on her face.

"No, no," he shifted forward enough so her hand fell away from his skin. "Please. You've done enough," her eyes narrowed and he searched desperately for some way for this _not _to be a rejection _but it is a rejection _and found it in the looming figure of Carver Hawke, looking their way and obviously trying not to in that way he had that Anders knew was unique to boys under twenty.

Oh to be that young again and free to do precisely the things he knew Carver thought Anders wanted to do to his sister. Plus a few more besides. The boy didn't look like he had the best imagination in the world, "_Any_ way," he said, "your brother is giving me_ that _look again and I'd rather like to wake up with my head attached to my neck if you don't mind."

Her head whipped round and she focused her gaze on her brother with enough murderousness that Anders almost regretted drawing her attention to it. The boy was an arse, but he didn't deserve death by immolation for not wanting his sister to be involved with an abomination. "Carver!" she shouted, and started stalking towards him. Anders ducked his head, now buzzing pleasantly from the aftermath of her spell, and poked at the fire with a stick.

It was going to be a long trip down into the dark.


	10. Reasons

_This one is set after "Healing Hands" where Saoirse ends up wounded between Act I and Act II and spends the night at Anders' clinic, after._

* * *

><p>When she woke up the next morning there was very little light seeping under the rickety door that partitioned Anders' room from the rest of the clinic. She swung her legs over the edge of the cot and wondered whether she'd be able to find clothes to wear back to the mansion - it was stupid, she knew, that they hadn't unblocked the cellar entrance, she could be so close to home otherwise…<p>

It would be so easy to slip down here at night… or for him to slip up to her…

She shook her head, trying to clear it of the cloying images, and stood up. The shirt she was wearing was at least long enough for her to claim _some _degree of modesty, so she pushed open the door a crack and peeped out.

The two big doors that led into the clinic were still shut. There would be people milling about outside, she knew. Whenever she managed to get down here early she was never the first, always, _always _there were people who had need enough to be at his door before he was ready for them.

She slipped out into the clinic. There was no light here, either, so she set a spell wisp up to see where she was going.

That was when she saw him.

On one of the cots, closest to his own room. He'd left his shirt off and was covered only by a thin blanket, so worn and threadbare that she felt a stab of guilt. Even after the deep roads he never seemed to have enough money to be comfortable. She knew he financed the clinic out of the money she gave him - _the money he earned helping her. _The only way she could get him to eat was to eat with him. And he wasn't eating enough - it was painfully obvious how his ribs showed under the muscle of his chest. Thin. So thin. She wanted to touch that skin, feel it under her fingers the way she had the night before.

One of his arms was flung over his head, his hair a fan of gold across the small pillow. He must have been _cold. _There wasn't enough heat here. If she pulled the blanket up to at least cover his shoulders, surely that would be all right, after all he'd done for her?

She knelt next to the cot and lifted the blanket, pulling it gently up to his shoulders. Maker, but the only thing she really _wanted _to do was kiss him, now. Nearly three years she'd been trying and she _knew _he felt the same about her and the damn problem was…

… what _was _the fucking problem? Really? She'd never gotten a straight answer. Only _I'll hurt you. _Or _you don't want to tie yourself to me _or _we've talked about this…_ but had they really? _Talked _about it?

Her fingers were still caught in the blanket, her knuckles resting against the skin of his shoulder. He hadn't stirred. He was so peaceful, his face lacking the constant wariness it had when he was awake. She gently lifted her hand, intending to cup his cheek, or stroke his hair, or… _something, _but there was a sudden sound - a creak of the cot, she was leaning too close and his eyes flew open and they were glowing _blue _not the soft brown she knew and before she could react he was on his feet and she was slammed against a wall.

"What are you doing?" the booming voice of Justice echoed around the clinic and for the first time in his presence she felt real _fear…_

Showing it, though, would be a mistake. Possibly the last mistake she would ever make. His hands were gripping her upper arms and she felt a twinge of pain in her middle where the arrow had pierced her. His grip was frightening in its strength, there was no way the thin arms she could see were capable of that much and she knew there would be bruises there, afterwards.

"Anders, it's me. Saoirse." She forced her voice calm. "I spent the night here, remember?"

The blue eyes blinked, the frown lessened. The cracks of blue light on his skin receded and his grip loosened. She wished she could touch him, but she was still gripped too firmly. "Anders?"

"You surprised me," he said, softly. There was still some echo to his voice, but he blinked and shook his head and the last of the blue faded from his eyes. _"Sweet Maker, _Saoirse!" he dropped her arms as though they burned him and stepped back. "Did I hurt you? Tell me I didn't hurt you!"

She shook her head. "I'm fine, Anders, it's all right!"

He was shaking. "I knew it was a mistake… to let you stay here."

"Anders, it's all right. I'm fine."

His eyes raked her body and she shivered, feeling heat flare in her cheeks, before he roughly grabbed her hand, pushing up the sleeve of the shirt she wore. She gasped as he exposed her upper arm, and the five red angry marks of his fingers showed livid against her skin. His lips curled in a snarl. _"Fine. Yes. Absolutely," _he growled, then shoved her hand away from him and turned his back. "I'm a _monster." _he hissed out. "You should go."

She frowned at him. "Should I?" she said. "I snuck up on you sleeping, you reacted the way _anyone _who's been living on a knife edge of tension for _years_…"

"_Anyone _couldn't have ripped your head off at the neck!"

"You know, about three of my friends _could _actually. Or boiled my blood from the inside. Or skewered me with a dagger. Or _bored _me to death preaching about the sodding Maker and his sodding _mercy_. Not to mention what I could do to _you…"_

"You don't understand."

"_Make _me understand then," she said. "Show me how terrible you are. Because you know what? I haven't seen it yet. I've seen you do nothing but help and heal people in need - you saved my brother, you spend your _life, _your _money _fighting an uphill, unending battle against the desperation and horror of this place and you have _never _hurt me or anyone who didn't richly deserve it!"

"I killed them _all _Saoirse!" he rounded on her, panting.

"_Who?"_

He drew in a deep breath, eyes narrowing. "I never told you why I left the wardens."

"You didn't?"

His hands were opening and closing, but his breath slowed and his eyes closed. "Justice and I… we decided to meld after they recruited a Templar to watch me. Alim was lucky, he got away before the Chantry started whining about the wardens harbouring apostates. Even with his status as Hero of Ferelden there were whispers about him - influencing the king, being a noble… Maker I should have seen it coming. After all, he wasn't the apostate._ I _was. And a murderer, according to them, even though the only Templars I ever killed were in self-defense…" he heaved a breath.

"Go on," she said.

"Rolan was there. I was so sodding stupid - _we _were so stupid, but when Justice came into me… well… I lost control. He saw. He knew what I was, and he called the Templars down on us. And so we killed him."

"Sounds perfectly reasonable to me," she said, folding her arms.

"No. You don't understand. We were out with the wardens - on a patrol… men I'd served with for months. When I killed Rolan… I ripped his _head _off, Saoirse, with my _hands… _and then…"

"What?"

"When I came back to myself they were _all _dead, Saoirse. The wardens, the templars, Rolan. All of them. I'd ripped them to shreds - tasted their _flesh…"_

Her eyes widened but she stood her ground, determined to make him _see…_

When he opened his eyes and looked at her she hadn't moved. "I hope you brushed your teeth after," she said mildly.

He blinked. _"What?"_

"Well, I can't imagine Templar tastes very good. They'd give you terrible breath too. All that windbagging."

"_Saoirse I'm being serious."_

"And I'm _not._ Because it's not _worth it."_

"Saoirse…"

"I've heard enough. You had no way of knowing what would happen when the two of you merged," she waved a hand. "They were threatening you. You reacted. And you feel _guilty _about it and you've spent four years trying to _make up for it."_

"How do you make up for something like that?" he said softly.

"You do what you've been doing for four years, Anders," she replied. "Unless you've been running off to snack on Templars when I'm not around I think you should _move on."_

"I… " Anders' expression of perplexed fury almost made her laugh. "Saoirse I just bared my soul to you and you're… you…"

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Yes?"

"You drive me _crazy!" _he shouted, but the tension was leaking out of him and his shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter. She allowed the smile to reach her face, then as she watched him. He sighed, finally, wiping at his eyes. "You should go," he said. "Your mother will be worried. I should check your wound too…"

"I can stay," she said. "And help for today. I'm not doing anything else."

"I'd… like that," he said.

"But, I'll need my clothes back," she said. "I don't think the residents of darkspawn need to be healed by a half naked apostate."

"Or two!" Anders said, grinning a little manically now. "I washed your robes last night, they're over here." He went to a corner were blankets and linens were hung on a line - obviously where he cleaned his bandages. Her robes were pinned next to some sheets. He handed them to her, a little shyly. "I mended the hole," he said. "Not the most professional of jobs, but they're decent again."

She took the bundle of red from him and traced the mend - neat, professional stitches. Where on _earth _did he learn to sew? "Thank you," she said.

He nodded, smiling, then shook his head in wonder. "I don't know how you do it, Saoirse," he said then, standing close. He lifted a hand, as though he were going to cup her cheek in it, and she found herself leaning forward, but he held back, as he always did, and the hand fell back to his side. The smile on his face turned rueful. "I _really_ don't. But… it's appreciated."

He turned back to his room, then, and she hugged the cloth of her robe to her chest, cursing fate, the world and _him _for being everything that she wanted and nothing she could have.


	11. Holding Pattern

_Set just after MEMORIES, right before the trip to the Wounded Coast to rescue Feynriel._

* * *

><p>Anders slung his staff on his back and watched her methodically loot the bodies. She reminded him of Alim, with her constant need for coin. He supposed she was still a long way off the fifty sovereigns she needed to finance the trip to the deep roads. The ever present problem of needing coin to make coin frustrated him almost as much as the plight of the mages. If the refugees in Darktown a sovereign between them there was a chance they could get back to Ferelden.<p>

If they had anything to go back to.

She sat back on her heels with a piece of paper in her hands. "Maker's Breath, why do they have _receipts _for these things?" she said, a faint look of disgust on her face. It was a slaver invoice. "Looks like they took him to some bolt hole in the Wounded Coast." A smile played on her lips. "I wonder if that's near the injured cliffs?" She looked up, hopefully. Fenris was scowling at the body of the slaver mage and Varric was polishing the stock of Bianca - the dwarf was obsessed with keeping the crossbow clean. Anders was the only one looking at her and he had to confess, he was distracted by the way her robe clung to her hips and behind as she crouched. "Or the limping hills? Massive head trauma bay?"

His lips twitched, but it was difficult to laugh when Fenris was standing so close to him. Maker, that lyrium had _flared _in battle and it had been like Pounce screeching in his head. Justice said he _liked _the sound Lyrium made to him. Maker knew why, it just gave Anders a headache.

"Just me?" she sighed and got to her feet, dusting off her knees. "Forget I said anything."

As they walk out of darktown together (it's early enough that getting to the Wounded Coast won't be a problem before lunch) he sidles next to her. "I thought it was funny," he said softly.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Let me get this straight," she said. "You thought something I said was _funny?"_

He blinked. "You were making a joke, weren't you?" he felt wrong footed suddenly. Surely he wasn't that far removed from social situations that he misread her?

The grin that flashes makes him sigh in relief. "Of course!" she seemed delighted. "It's just that mostly people groan. Or hit me. Or ignore me completely." She tilted her head on one side. "Father used to laugh, though. Mother says I must have got my sense of humour from him. Maker knows Carver doesn't have one."

"What happened to him?" he asked softly. "Was it Templars?"

She looked sad, but the smile remained. "No. Damned fool got hit by a tree he decided he could log himself. He was tired of the local woodcutter putting him off, and he decided to do it himself."

Anders spluttered. "He tried to chop a tree down?"

"Oh, he managed to get it down all right. Just didn't get out of the way fast enough when it fell."

"Why didn't he use magic?"

She didn't seem to be able to repress her grin. "My father was the most stubborn man who ever existed," she said.

"You sound like you loved him very much," he said, unable to keep the crack of bitterness out of his tone.

"I did," she said softly. "He was a good man, and we had a good life." She snorted then. "Even if Carver doesn't think so."

"I don't think many people would be willing to do what your family did," he said. "And fewer still who'd do it as successfully. Most mages would kill to have someone like your father protecting and teaching them."

"They took you from your family," she said after a short pause.

He suddenly regretted starting the whole conversation. "Yes," he said. His stomach flipped and he felt the edges of his control fray a little - thinking about his family always did that.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," he said shortly.

"I'm getting the impression you don't want to talk about it," she was grinning again and he felt the surge of anger receding. _She _hadn't done it. _She _wasn't Ser Harley, or Ser William. And she would never have to face a Ser William, not if he had anything to say about it.

The fierceness of his sudden urge to protect her almost left him shaking.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It wasn't pleasant."

"Did they try to keep you?"

He laughed. Short and bitter. "My mother might have wanted to. But my father…" He shook his head, remembering the clink of coins. "Look… talking about this isn't…" he took a deep breath. "Justice isn't used to human emotions. _Any _of them. If I… get…"

He felt her hand on his arm and she stopped. He turned to face her. All trace of humour was gone. "You're crying," she pointed out. Her voice was rough and blunt. He lifted a hand to his face and felt the wetness there, flushing with embarrassment.

"As I was saying," he said, giving her a rueful smile. "Justice isn't used to human emotion. It's… much harder to control than it used to be."

"You speak about him as though he's separate from you," she said.

He shrugged, overwhelmed by the inability to explain. "He was, when I met him. It's hard to talk about what we are when I can remember what both of us _were._"

She looked curious then, but Varric was calling for them to get moving and she patted his arm absently. "I have more questions," she said, smiling slightly. "Hold that thought."

He watched her go ahead of him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, remembering then the first few weeks of his new existence. On the ship to Kirkwall he'd nearly gone catatonic in the hold when they'd tried to keep him there, paralyzed by the claustrophobia he'd spent years overcoming. In the early days in the refugee camps he'd spent hours clamped around himself trying to stop crying after dreaming of Karl.

He should have thought of it, of course. There were so many things he should have thought of. Justice even _knew _parts of his story, but he'd never _felt _them the way Anders had, he hadn't had to live through it, experience the helplessness. And Kristoff's body had been _dead. _All the regret and gentle longing, the innocent _envy _the spirit had for human emotions had been no way of preparing him for the visceral reality of human feeling, hate and anger and hurt and _lust…_

Maker's breath. He didn't need to be having that thought now. Not when he was walking behind Hawke. Those damned robes of hers were far too body hugging and he couldn't help but imagine what it might be like to rest his hands in the delicious dip between waist and buttock, feel the splay of those hips under his hands _without _the robes, just skin on smooth, warm skin.

His mouth had gone dry. _Not… just _not_ helping, _he thought. There were so many things wrong with where his mind was going. A list would take up all his meagre paper supply. _Warden, apostate, abomination. Not even in that order._

When he finally tore his gaze away he saw the elf, Fenris, looking back at him, big green eyes narrowed.

_Oh wonderful, _he thought. _Let's add jealousy into the mix. That will make things _so _much easier._

He shifted his shoulders and started walking, hoping they'd get to kill more slavers on the Wounded Coast. At least then he could vent some frustration.

_If we had a giant rock to push uphill, _he thought to himself,_ that would perfectly describe my life._


	12. Warnings

"Will you… just _stop."_

"Stop what, little brother?" She was polishing her staff - the one that had belonged to father, the one that Carver was always embarrassed by because of the naked lady on the top. Malcolm never carried it in Lothering. He'd kept it hidden away. Saoirse suspected the form at the top was based on her mother's. "Got to keep the Aurum clean, or it sticks on ice spells."

"Not the staff. Sod the _staff. _Stop _looking _at him like that."

She started guiltily. Ok, so her eyes _may _have been resting on Anders'….bits a little more than was _strictly _necessary, but he _was _the warden. If there were darkspawn about he would be the first to know. It was a simple survival tactic. She arranged a look of innocence and eyed her brother. "I didn't mean to step on your parade, Carver," she said. "You know he fancies men? Tends to go for the dark haired ones too, from what I could…"

"Maker's _breath _sister, _I'm _not interested…"

"Really? Because mages can do this grease spell…"

"Stop talking, _now!"_

She smirked, but Carver, surprisingly, didn't leave. She sighed and set the staff aside. "Carver, I'm old enough to look after myself."

"He's an abomination, sister."

"Yes. And I'm a mage. And you're a… whatever it is that you are. What _are _you, Carver?"

"Can you take nothing seriously?"

"When I find something to take seriously, I promise you I will," she said sternly. "But at the moment I'm too busy thinking of all the delightful things a good electricity spell can be used for." She waggled her fingers. "Did you know if you target it at the _very tip _of…"

Carver held up his hands and stood. "Fine. I'm leaving. Mother can't claim I didn't at least _try _to stop you from destroying your life_."_

She caught his hand before he could get away. "Wait, did _mother _put you up to this? Bit of the pot calling the kettle black, surely?"

Carver sighed. "No. I just… I worry about you sister. I don't think you appreciate the danger you are."

She dropped his hand as though it were white hot. "The danger _I _am?"

Carver looked haunted and guilty and she narrowed her eyes at him. "The… look. I can be worried about my own sister, can't I?"

"You just don't want to go to a wedding where the bride and groom can _both _electrocute you," she said, smiling a little. But that little slip of his had hurt, more than she thought it would, from him.

"Ha! No Chantry would perform the service. It would collapse first."

"Who's collapsing chantries?" Anders said, approaching with that damned _smirk _on his face - the one that started all the trouble. _"Oh, I'm sure I could get more creative…" _damn the man. She thanked the maker it was dark, because she knew she was blushing.

"Not me," Carver muttered, stalking away.

"I don't like to speak ill of your relatives…" Anders said as Carver retreated.

"Please, don't. That's something _I _like doing far too much."

"Your mother seems like a nice woman…"

Saoirse grinned and motioned for Anders to sit next to her. "It must be something in the male line then," she said. He settled next to her and poked at the fire. They all stank, but for some reason he didn't smell as bad as the rest of them. Maybe it was the warden thing, or maybe it was because he was a mage and managed to wash a bit with ice spells the way she did, but it wasn't offensive to have him next to her the way it was to have pretty much anyone else in the party closer than a few feet.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just like old times," he said. "Apart from the crushing lyrium headache."

"There's no way you can…" she waved a hand "turn him off?"

He laughed. "I wish there were," he said. "But no. We're blended, you can't turn off part of yourself."

"Huh." She rested her chin on her hand and watched his long fingers hand as they gripped the stick. It was nice, having him next to her like this, but her mind kept circling around what Carver had said.

"Your brother seems particularly grumpy today," Anders said.

"The boy has something permanently wedged up his arse," she said forcefully. Anders cocked an eyebrow and she sighed. "He's been like that ever since we rescued Keran."

"First time he's seen blood magic then?"

"Yes. Bit of a pity, actually. I half hoped he and Merrill might…"

"You'd set your own brother up with a blood mage?"

She shrugged and grinned. "It'd get me off the hook for fancying an abomination," she said.

Anders' face fell and he coughed a little. "Well, he has a point. I'm not a good target for fancying."

She rolled her eyes. "It's not like I've got a lot of options," she said, waving a hand. "Elves who can shove their fists through my chest and hate mages, dwarves who have unhealthy obsessions with crossbows, darkspawn, templars… I really should have stayed in Lothering."

He grinned. "There's always Isabela," he said.

"Oh yes, there's _always _Isabela. Maybe _she'd _deign to tell me exactly how to do that electricity thing."

He waggled his finger. "Now _that _is a trade secret. You'd have to learn it from the source."

"Are you offering?" she raised her eyebrow at him. He raised his hands, frown returning.

"No."

She sighed. "Fine. Well, you get second watch then. As punishment for…"

"Being an abomination?"

"Rejecting me," she shot back, pointing at him. He laughed and got to his feet, heading to his bedroll.

"Bastard," she muttered under her breath.

He wasn't _screaming, _exactly, but she got the impression that wasn't by choice. She'd had nightmares, but never like what he was obviously having. He thrashed from side to side so violently he was in danger of rolling into the fire.

When cracks of blue light appeared on his face she figured _now _would be a good time to wake him - the dwarves and other expedition members probably didn't need to know they were traveling with an abomination.

"Anders," she hissed in his ear, shaking his arm. "Anders, you're dreaming, wake up."

"Late," he mumbled. "Why are they late…?"

"_Anders," _his eyes flew open, brown and wide. She could feel the throb of his pulse under her fingers - he was obviously terrified.

"_Saoirse," _he said, and his hand gripped her arm, hard. "Oh, thank the _Maker." _There was so much feeling in his voice that she almost flinched from it, a level of desperation she'd only heard from people who were incapacitated from fear.

"Bad dream?"

He sat up, groaning and letting her arm go. "Nothing new there," he muttered.

"This warden business seems a bit excessive," she said.

He shrugged. "…wasn't a warden dream."

"You were muttering about someone being late. I'd assumed you weren't talking about the archdemon."

Even in the half light from the lyrium and the dying campfire she saw the violent shudder that wracked him at her words. He hugged his arms around his chest and took deep breath that was almost a sob. She settled back on her heels, unwilling to leave him in this state, unsure of what to do to bring him out of it. "I would pretend to be tactful and distant," she said after a moment, "but I'm way, _way _too curious. How could someone being _late _make you…"

"… gibber with fear?" he said, his voice shaking.

"Yes."

He ran a hand through his hair. "You know, I could explain it to you, but I doubt you'd understand."

"Try me."

"Saoirse it's not that I don't appreciate you trying to be nice to me…"

"Was it something to do with the Tower?" she asked. The firelight glinted off his eyes as he looked up at her, the answer written plain on his face. She nodded. "I thought so. Look - I don't know much about the Tower, but I am a mage - you could probably do with a bit of venting. I vent about Carver to you all the time - you could consider this pay back?"

He looked at her, long and hard. "You can't know how lucky you are not to be captured," he said then, softly. "I wish… I wish my parents had been as…"

She shrugged. "So tell me," she said. "I know you want to."

"They put me in solitary confinement," he said then, his voice hoarse. "For a year. After my sixth escape."

"Solitary?"

The shadow that was his head nodded. "It's not something you could understand - you've never had to… you never _will…" _the cracks of blue started to appear again and she shrank back. "No mage should ever have to go through that. They had no _right." _His voice boomed and she leaned forward and grasped his arm.

"Anders!"

"Unngh…" he bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Stupid. Stupid of me. Sorry. I shouldn't have…"

"It _will _help, you know. If you talk about it." He shook his head again.

"You should go to sleep. It's close enough to my watch."

She frowned at him, even though she knew he couldn't see it. "My father was in the Tower," she said finally. "He never talked about it. To anyone. I sometimes think he might have been better off if he did."

There was a long silence. She got to her feet, finally, intending to go back to sleep, or attempt to, but his voice cut through the darkness and she stopped.

"Routine is important," he said, and his voice was flat and cold. "When you're alone. The cell had no windows, no natural light, and they bound my hands so I couldn't make any. There's no way to tell what time of day it is. So you have to count the days by when your meals come. Because they don't want you to starve to death, that would defeat the purpose. What they want… what they _need _to happen is for you to be possessed. If you're possessed they can kill you, without betraying chantry law the way the Templars _here_ do all the time."

"You know they're defying Chantry law in Kirkwall?" she said.

His eyes flashed blue for a second. "Karl was _Harrowed. _He'd been Harrowed for fifteen _years. _I could point you to the direct line that prohibits that, if I had the right volume with me."

She nodded. "So, tranquility for you wasn't an option."

"In Ferelden, the Templars still believe. Greagior may be a total prick, but at least he obeys the law. When he _can._ Tranquiling harrowed mages is _not allowed. _Killing mages who haven't shown they're using blood magic is _not allowed. _Lucky for me the Templars at the Tower still cared about that sort of thing._"_

The words were pouring out of him like a torrent, now. Her hands itched - she wanted to hug him, take his hand, do _something… _but she had to be content with sitting across from him, not touching, just… listening.

"So, mealtimes are regular, in the Tower, and they obviously used to feed me just after they fed the rest of the mages. Different food, sure, but there was always enough of it and it always came at the _same time… _until…"

"What?"

"They changed my guard every now and then. It's boring, being the guard on solitary. The sort of thing they do to punish Templars who've done the wrong thing. Go and stand outside Anders' cell. Don't talk to him, if you talk to him we'll punish _you. _He might be possessed. He probably _is. _Give him his meals. Make sure he's not dead. Don't talk to him…

"… they replaced the guard I had the first few months with a bloke I… had a run in with. William, his name was. He was one of the ones who took me from my parents…" she saw him shudder again, and his arms wrapped even tighter around his middle. "Karl warned me about him. I was lucky enough not to have… experienced the things Karl warned me about, but I… suffice to say he wanted to get back at me. So he started messing up the meal times."

She frowned and he made a desperate sound. "See, you don't understand… it's impossible for you to understand. Because you don't know what it's like… to have no frame of reference for time passing - it's the worst kind of madness." He was rocking back and forth now, and she couldn't deny it, she was frightened. For him, _of him_, of what he was telling her, of something she'd never truly been frightened of before. Or at least, frightened enough.

Oh, her father had tried to tell her she needed to be more careful, but she'd never truly listened, because for all the haunted, hunted looks he'd given her he'd never _ever _told her what the circle was actually _like_.

Anders was right, she had no idea why or how it could be so terrifying for him. But she could see that it _was. _And she could see he needed to talk about it, and so she shoved her bedroll next to his and they sat in the almost darkness, talking, well past her watch, and his, and by the end of it, when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of a lonely and desperate man and his deal with a spirit that had begun to make a whole new kind of sense to her.

_At least now he's never alone, _she thought, when she woke the next morning, or whatever time it was down here (_no wonder he's having flashbacks) _to see him sleeping peacefully next to her, strands of blond hair loose across his face.

"Maker's breath, sister, please tell me you've still got all your clothes on."

Anders' eyes flew open and met hers and she smirked, trying to make it as dirty as she possibly could, and was rewarded with a blush. "Honestly Carver," she said, pushing herself up to reveal that she still had her robes on, as did Anders. "If you think you have to take your clothes off to have sex you really _haven't _been going to the Rose often enough."

When they were on their way again, she felt an arm on her shoulder and looked back to see Anders.

"Thank you," he said simply. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand, gloved fingers lingering for a few seconds before he let go.

Something loosened in her chest, then, as she watched him walk ahead of her. _Truce for now, Anders, _she thought.

For now.

* * *

><p><em>Ok, I'll admit I'm completely obsessed. Go to wikipedia and look up Solitary Confinement.<em>

_If you read the articles that are cited in the footnotes (and I have been spending a lot of time doing this - my dragon age obsession has finally pushed me into doing serious research about an issue) you'll learn a lot about the hideousness of solitary confinement. I have Anders suffering from a type of Chronophobia or Prison Psychosis. On top of everything else the poor bastard has been through, really his actions at the end of DA2 are kind of understandable. His paranoia and lack of social restraint can also be partly attributed to the side effects of his solitary confinement. Really, they didn't need to do anything else to him to make him the way he is. This radio interview is particularly heart-wrenching, if you have half an hour to spare._


	13. Balance

"Maybe we should leave," she reached out to touch his shoulder, but dropped her hand as he jerked away.

"No. I don't want you comforting me," Fenris snarled. Her eyes narrowed and she looked over at Anders, whose knuckles were white on his staff. "You saw what was done here. There's always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages have to do this. Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her? What does magic touch that it doesn't spoil?" She drew in a sharp breath, surprised at how much that hurt. It wasn't as though she expected anything more than that from Fenris.

The elf's green eyes were fixed on her. She raised an eyebrow at him but didn't bother to respond. If he was going to start the tired argument again, she at least had Anders here to back her up. But Fenris seemed to know when he didn't need to press his point and he simply shrugged. "I need to go," he said.

_Yes. You do, _she thought. He was big enough to look after himself on the way back to Kirkwall. Anders and Isabela watched him leave, Isabela looking concerned.

"Hawke, you're not going to go after him?"

She snorted. "Why bother? He might get it into his head to _magically fist me_ if I tried. Didn't you hear him? Magic spoils everything."

"He didn't mean _you."_

"Really?" Anders had planted his staff and was gripping it, surveying the room. She was angry with _him _as well, although the reasons for _that _anger were entirely caught up in nights spent in his clinic _not _naked and almost kisses and touches that drove her increasingly mad with desire and kept her awake at night. Seeing him angry was never good for her equilibrium. He was _sexy _when he was pissed. "He's little more than a dog off his leash," Anders continued. "I'm surprised we all have our hearts still in our chests."

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Anders you _need _a drink, I don't care what Justice says."

"Your glowing friend needs to get the broomstick unwedged from his arse," Anders said through gritted teeth.

Isabela huffed and threw her hands in the air. "Mages!" she said.

Saoirse bared her teeth at her. "Pirates!" she shot back, then softened. "Don't worry about Fenris, Isabela, he's perfectly capable of brooding anyone to death who bothers him on the way home."

"You really don't like him do you?"

"No, Isabela. He thinks I should be locked up. Would you like someone who thought that about you?"

Isabela considered it. "No," the pirate's eyes gleamed with mischief then. "But he _smolders," _she said, grinning.

Saoirse looked at her. Then she looked at Anders, who was tight lipped. _Fucking men, _she thought.

"Let's get back."

O~O~O

He had been uncharitable. He knew that. And rude, and offensive, and all the things he knew he was always with Hawke, but_ this_ time he felt more guilty about it. Perhaps because she'd asked him not to kill her.

If she'd _known _exactly what Hadriana had been like, perhaps…

…but _no._ It was simply unfair. In the end, he'd taken his aggression out on the wrong person, and he needed her on _his _side. He needed her power, her influence…

…her presence.

He needed to apologise.

The dwarf let him in. "The mistress isn't home yet, Ser, but you can wait in the lobby. I'll have Sandal make you a refreshment?"

"I need nothing," Fenris snapped. He sat on the bench and rested his head in his hands. Why wasn't she back? Perhaps he should have tried the Hanged Man… but he didn't want to be doing this in front of everyone, he needed to see _her _alone, he needed to make certain he could count on her if…. _when _Danarius returned.

_Mages. Always mages._

She was home late, smelling of alcohol _how can she be so careless with the power she wields _and tired faced. When she saw him, however, she stopped dead. Her cheeks were beautifully flushed in the half light, her hazel eyes bright. The deep fire of her hair made his hands twitch - to stroke it or yank it he wasn't certain.

His body stirred in ways he wasn't sure how to deal with.

"Fenris," she said, her voice flat.

"I've been thinking about what happened with Hadriana," he said, standing and moving towards her. She was wary, putting her hand on her staff and stepping back. He sighed. It seemed he had done more to damage her trust than he thought.

_Or the abomination has more sway over her than you do._

He shook his head. "You and I don't always see eye to eye," he said, trying for diplomacy. "But that doesn't mean you deserved my anger. I owe you an apology."

She took her hand from her staff, but the wariness didn't leave her eyes. "I had no idea where you went," she said shortly. "I was… concerned."

She didn't sound like she was.

"I needed to be alone," he said. She raised an eyebrow. He tried to explain, why Hadriana's death had been important, but she sneered at him.

"Admit it," she said finally. "You just wanted to kill her."

"And what would you have me do? Hadriana came after ME, I never had the option to simply walk away. Am I supposed to forgive, no matter how many times they hunt me down? Am I supposed to forget all the things they've done to me?"

She rubbed her forehead with her hand. "Fenris, it's late, and I'm drunk, and I appreciate that you're trying to apologise to me, but it's not necessary. Truly."

He grunted in frustration. This wasn't working. She was looking at him, her lips pressed together in anger - or something. It was confusing. He hadn't seen her angry often. Usually when someone she cared for was threatened. Carver. The abomination. Isabela.

He'd never seen her look that way for him.

"You may not wear chains any more, but you're not free."

Her tone infuriated him. That she could so blithely say things - directed at the very core of who he was, without any thought of how it made him feel… "You know _nothing_ of being a slave!"

She snarled at him. "Don't I?"

"No, you do _not."_

"Would you say the same to Anders if he were here?"

"Circle mages are _not _slaves."

"Aren't they?"

"No. There is a world of difference between me and… and _him…"_

"Oh, yes. An entire world Fenris." She turned her back on him, and he was infuriated again… why was it that she could do so much to him with a few simple words?

He watched her back for a few moments. It was important, this. He had to remind himself why he was here. Hawke was the ally he needed against Danarius. She - despite her magic - _because _of it - was the person most likely to make sure he survived. Make sure he was _free. _

"It's like a sickness," he heard himself say, "this hate… this dark growth inside of me I can't ever get rid of, and_ they_ put it there." Her expression hadn't changed. He wasn't getting through to her. "This isn't why I came here." It was pointless. He turned to go, but felt a hand on his arm. The sensation cut through his brain like sword. No pain… there was _no pain, _but there _should have been. _

"So you're just going to leave?" the _contempt _in her voice… _that _was what hurt. Not the touch itself…

He grabbed her hand, without thinking, and suddenly he was against the wall and she was pressed against him… no… _he _was pressed against her and the blue light from his tattoos made the pools of her eyes shadows of…

…._need…_

She wasn't wearing her normal armour. She was soft. And pliable. And _fragile. _If he wanted, he could kill her, with a simple flick of his wrist against her pale throat, or he could plunge his fist through her chest, and touch her heart… pull it out… but right now, right _now _all he could think of was how her breath was heaving against him, how he could feel, even through the chestplate of his armour, the soft press of her breasts…

He had _power _over her in this minute. Her eyes were wide and the pupils were dilated. Her lips, soft and red and moist, parted over her white, white teeth…

She was a _mage _and he _hated her._

She was a _mage _and he _wanted… _what he wanted was _power _over her. But what it felt like….

She was panting, an animalistic sound. He ground his hands into her wrists, the light of his tattoos seeping into her skin.

In the end, he was grateful she was the one who lunged forward. When her lips touched his, he could forget she was a mage, for a moment at least. He could _feel _without pain. When she exerted her not inconsiderable strength and pushed him back against the wall, he let himself be carried away by the sensations. When she broke away, he blinked, his hands still tight around her wrists, not willing to let go.

"What?"

"Upstairs," she said, breathless. "Now."

He wasn't certain how he managed to divest himself of his armour, but he was naked quickly, a touch of shame flushing his skin as he remembered nights in Minrathous where his master had ordered him to strip to examine the progress of his markings, to inflame them - use them to fuel his magics. But Hawke was naked too, and his eyes traveled over the cream expanse of her skin - the tanline at her neck where her high-collared robe protected her from the sun, the freckles that dusted her shoulders and arms, her long, long limbs.

Desire was alien to him. He hadn't felt the full force of it - couldn't _remember_ feeling the full force of it until this moment, here, _now. _The growl he let out made her eyes widen in something akin to fear.

_Good, _he thought. _Let her be afraid… _but she didn't push him away or say no when he backed her to the bed, didn't object, only let out groans and gasps of pleasure as he licked and bit his way over her body, touching as much as he could.

There was a flare of power suddenly and he pulled back a little, looking into her face. She blinked muzzily up at him and he bared his teeth.

"You would use magic?_ Now?"_

She shook her head… "I didn't… it wasn't…"

"You have no _control _over your power?" he spat out, pinning her body with his so she couldn't move, could barely breathe. Her eyes narrowed, however. The power flared blue for a moment and he felt a stab of electricity to his arms where she gripped them in her hands.

"Shut up," she said, grinding her hips upwards, making him groan. "And fuck me."

He complied.

As he buried himself in her, something stirred in the back of his mind. Images started to swirl, of a girl, a place… a _feeling… _each thrust brought up a different memory and Fenris found his cries matching those of the woman beneath him - pulled from frustration and anger as well as overwhelming, consuming pleasure. When his climax took him he shouted his fierce joy and collapsed on her, panting, his tattoos flaring. The memories - so bright and real, burned into his mind for a few glorious seconds and he was _no longer _Fenris he was… he was…

He pulled back and out of her, snarling in frustration. "What did you _do?" _he growled.

She rubbed at her wrists, still panting, cheeks flushed. "What do you mean?"

He stared at her for a few moments, the aftermath of pleasure still burning through him, but the memories… the _memories were gone. _He almost howled.

"I… "

She pushed herself up on the bed, his seed still leaking from her, her body bearing marks and bruises from their lovemaking. He knew his own bore similar marks - she had been anything but gentle, but seeing how he had marked _her_… it should have made him feel powerful. It should have _helped…. _but all he felt was guilt.

"This was a mistake," he said. She folded her arms across her breasts and glared at him.

"Fuck you, Fenris," she said, quite mildly, all things considered.

He gave a desperate laugh and started gathering his things, pulling on his armour, his movements sharp and jerky and full of pain.

"I'm sorry," he said, when he was dressed. She hadn't moved, but she'd called forth healing magic. The bites and bruises were fading.

"Just go," she said softly, pulling the sheets up around her and lying back. "You know the way."

"Hawke… I…"

"Please. You've done enough."

He looked at her helplessly, but she turned her face into the pillow.

He left.


	14. Aftermath

Saoirse was pacing in the courtyard. Something was wrong, more than usual, he could tell by the tense set of her shoulders. He told himself that was why he was studying her, rather than the way the light caught the waves of bright hair falling over her neck and escaping in wisps around her forehead. Or the dark gleam of _something _in her eyes when she looked at him.

"We might have to cancel," she said, cursing. "I don't want to go up to Sundermount without a swordsman and Aveline... warned me she might be too busy with the guards today..."

"Too busy with that dark haired Donnic, more like," Isabela said, from where she lounged against the wall of the Hawke estate. "He has _pretty _hair."

Aveline's love life was a constant source of amusement for Isabela these days. At least Donnic wasn't a Templar, like her previous husband had been. Anders _liked _Aveline, but she was far too militant and thinking about her with a Templar made his brain follow unpleasant paths.

"Why do we need lady man-arms, any way?" Isabela was saying. "I can…"

Saoirse shot her a fond but exasperated look. "After the last time Anders had to patch you up I'm not letting you take point alone, Bela," she said.

Isabela's smile got wider. "Oh, but I was hoping he would," she purred. "Getting touched by those hands is almost worth the sword rips in my shirt."

Anders rolled his eyes.

Isabela straightened, with her smirk still in place. "I thought broody and glowy was coming with us?"

Saoirse bit her lip and looked down. "I don't…."

_After the shitfight that was yesterday Isabela? _Anders thought_._ "I doubt whether Fenris…"

"Doubt whether Fenris what, mage?" The elf sounded even more broody than usual, and Anders turned to see him glowering directly behind him.

He bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile. "I didn't think you'd be joining us after…" _ripping that woman's heart out of her chest and having a screaming fight with the woman you agreed aid..._

"I gave my word to help Hawke, mage," Fenris growled, pushing past him to where Saoirse stood. Anders turned in time to see her flinch as Fenris approached.

Saoirse flinching? The woman faced down giant spiders with a smile and a quip.

…_What?_

"Well, if you think you're up to it," she said, but her voice lacked its usually cocky authority and the heat of a blush touched her skin.

_What's going on?_

* * *

><p>"Anders, Fenris is down!" Isabela's voice cut through the haze of magic and lyrium and he glanced down to see the elf was indeed, prone, and bleeding from his chest. The armour had been severely dented by a mace and the elf was in danger of being suffocated by the very thing that was meant to protect him. Blinking, he threw a forcefield around the elf and concentrated on killing the rest of the skeletons briefly wondering why <em>was <em>Sundermount such a haven for the undead? they couldn't _all _be because of Merrill, the girl had been in the Alienage for three years...

The final skeleton was reduced to dust by a blast of force magic from Saoirse, who immediately came up to him. "Fenris?"

"Let me work," he said, making his way to the elf's side. "You're nearly out of mana and Isabela's been cut on the leg. Go heal her, I'll deal with him."

She squeezed his arm briefly then turned to go.

Anders dispelled the forcefield surround the elf and started to work on the buckles of his armour. He'd only undone one, however, when he felt a strong hand grab his.

"What are you doing…mage…" Fenris' voice was raspy and bubbled ominously.

He pulled his hand free, more easily than he should have been able, given the elf's unnatural strength. It was obvious he was weakening fast. "Saving your life, you arrogant sod," he muttered, unbuckling the other side of the breasplate. "You stupid arse, why don't you wear a shirt under this? Want to freeze to death?"

"Is there a purpose to your babbling?"

Anders grunted and called forth magic as he pulled the dented plate away from Fenris' skin. As he'd feared, there was a broken rib in danger of piercing the elf's lung. "You need to stop talking if you don't want to drown in your own blood," he said clinically.

The elf gritted his teeth as Anders worked, using magic to remove the bone and start repairing the lung tissue. It was a painful injury, but the elf made no further sounds as Anders flooded him with magic. The lyrium in his tattoos flared with the power he was pouring into him and Anders gritted his own teeth as the screech of Justice's _song _washed over him, the two sides of his nature simultaneously yearning towards it and wanting to shut it out. When he was satisfied the lung was repaired, Anders swept his eyes over the elf's bare torso, looking for anything he might have missed now that the major injury was dealt with.

Scratch marks on his upper arms. A perfectly defined bite mark at the junction of his neck and shoulder. He pulled his hands back to see the elf's green eyes were fixed on him expression challenging him to ask...

Those injuries _weren't _from the battle.

Anders felt his lips curl in an amused grin. "Did we visit the Blooming Rose last night, Fenris?"

The elf blinked, as though he hadn't understood the question.

Anders' grin widened. "You know, the _brothel. _I hear Jethann is quite skilled with his..."

"It's none of your business, mage," Fenris snapped out. Anders chuckled and reached out a finger to touch the bite mark on his neck. Fenris swatted his hand away with enough force to bruise. Anders cocked an eyebrow and sat back on his heels.

"Nothing like lying in the arms of a skilled whore to wash the memory of _murder…"_

Fenris' hand was around Anders' throat faster than Anders had ever seen _anyone _move and he was suddenly pinned under the elf's weight. He was far heavier than he looked. Either he was _all _dense muscle or the lyrium actually weighed him down.

"Shut up or I'll kill you right here, mage," Fenris growled.

"Don't… know… why you're so… grumpy," Anders managed to choke out, even though his survival instincts were kicking him and telling him to _stop niggling at the elf trying to kill you… _"We all have… needs…"

Fenris' tattoos flared blue and Anders was certain he was about to die. _Where are you when I'm in danger these days? _he asked Justice, not expecting a reply from the spirit. He had goaded the elf after all, his former friend probably thought being nearly throttled was all he _deserved._

Also, he didn't think Saoirse would let Fenris kill him - and Justice, who he often forgot could be almost charmingly naive, _knew _she wouldn't.

…provided Saoirse could see what he was doing.

"Fenris! What the fuck?" Her voice was even more beautiful than usual, her pale hand grabbing Fenris' shoulder and pulling him back from Anders. He saw stars as oxygen rushed back to his brain and he sat up, coughing.

"Andraste's arse, just because he's embarrassed about seeing _whores_ doesn't mean he gets to _choke _me to death," he muttered, glaring at the elf…

…Who was looking at Saoirse with a desperate expression. Anders looked back to Saoirse, who had flushed as red as her hair and was looking at the ground.

_Fuck._

"…I get the sense I probably shouldn't have said that," he said softly from the ground, before the hurt jumped up and started to strangle him from the inside, far more effectively than Fenris had.

"Well now. Isn't this _delicious," _Isabela drawled.

Fenris snarled and turned on the rogue, who stepped back, laughing. Saoirse dropped her face into her hands, shoulders shaking for a few moments, then walked away.

_Fuckety fuck._

He got to his feet, wheezing, and followed after her, not listening to Isabela teasing the elf or Fenris' growled answers as he attempted to beat out his chestplate enough to put back on. Saoirse had turned a corner (on the way back _down _the mountain, thank the Maker, she was sensible enough not to continue into another nest of walking corpses or giant spiders when she stormed away) and was sitting on a flat rock, overlooking the tiny figures of Merrill's clan below them.

_She slept with him._

"Saoirse?" He remembered her words yesterday, the sneer in her voice. _Didn't you hear him? Magic spoils everything!_

_How did she get from _that _to _sleeping _with him?_

"Are you all right?"

She snorted. "What do _you _think, Anders?" her voice was choked with tears.

Another possibility occurred to him and he felt Justice squirm and almost break free at the disgusting, brief moment of hope that it was true. It _wasn't _she would have _killed him _rather than let him any where near them or the work they were doing...

"I don't know what to think," he said, surprised at his own honesty. "I just… didn't think you and he were…"

"Fuck, we're _not," _she shuddered and turned to face him, her eyes and nose red. She sniffed indignantly. "_Maker_, we're not."

_Sweet Andraste, thank you. _He thought, but at the same time he was thinking: _Hypocrite. It's none of your business, Anders, why do you care who she sleeps with she could be fucking the Knight Commander and it wouldn't be…_

Oh that coil of hurt was winding tighter and tighter with every thought that crossed his mind.

She got to her feet suddenly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and stalking back towards Fenris and Isabela. Anders stood for a moment, helplessly, then followed her.

They got to the top of Sundermount, collected the herbs he needed - he'd forgotten what was so sodding urgent about them now - and then made their way back to Kirkwall. She left them all at the gates without a word and Anders watched her helplessly before turning back to Isabela and Fenris. Fenris growled at him and stalked a way awkwardly (he'd managed to make enough repairs on the breastplate for it to be wearable, but it must have been uncomfortable) but Isabela just stood there, smirking at him.

"What?"

"You know, jealousy suits Fenris. It just looks sad and pathetic on you."

He clenched his teeth. "That's because it is," he said shortly. _Sad and pathetic and useless, because why be jealous of something he destroyed even before it had the chance to begin? _

"Oh, Anders, don't sell yourself short. She only slept with him because you won't. A woman has _needs _you know."

"Isabela, please stop talking and never say anything again _ever."_

"Cheerio," she waved a few fingers at him and wandered off towards the Hanged Man. Anders rubbed his eyes and turned towards his clinic.

He buried himself in broken limbs and bruises for the rest of the day and one particularly nasty case of consumption that he wouldn't be able to completely cure - only treat, which made his chest ache - he didn't know how long he'd be able to stay in darktown, every day the Templars thought he was more useful here than in the gallows could be his last, and once he was gone the boy would undoubtably die.

He closed the doors and extinguished the lamps but for the one over his desk and sat at it, cradling his head in his hands and trying to ignore the raging hurt in his chest.

He'd been trying to get his thoughts in order - to write down all the truths that were self-evident to him about the mages' plight, but tonight all he could think of was Saoirse and _Fenris _and no matter Justice's prodding nothing could make him pick up his quill or his inks or attempt to sort out the mess that was what he was jokingly beginning to refer to as his "manifesto"…

"Anders?"

He was imagining her voice. It happened sometimes. But then he felt a hand touch his arm tentatively and he turned to see her standing there. "What are you doing here?" he meant it to come out harsh, but it came out fond, and eager, and… _apologetic. _

"I wanted to see you. I… just…" she grimaced, and looked down. "I didn't want you to go away thinking that the thing with Fenris was… "

"Saoirse it's none of my business," he said softly, looking at the ground.

There was a silence, and it went on so long he began to think she might have gone, but when he looked up she was still standing there, biting her lip and _Maker's Breath _there were tears running down her cheeks. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. All he wanted was to hold her now... well, not _all _he wanted, but it was the main thing but how could he do that without...

He was there without realising how and gathered her into an embrace, pulling her close against his chest and stroking her hair. Some things were necessary. Some things were _... just._

"Maker I hate myself right now," he heard her say, muffled by his coat and their closeness.

"Don't say that. It wasn't your fault." He didn't even know what he meant, but the words were automatic, coming from some place where people store meaningless comfort.

She laughed, and her arms tightened around him. "No, it was my fault. Stupid, sodding hormones. I _hate_ the man, Anders."

She pulled back and blinked up at him, but he found he couldn't bring himself to let her go. "He does have pretty eyes though," he said, smiling slightly.

She sniffed and used one hand to wipe her nose. The other, he couldn't help but notice, stayed firmly hooked around his waist and he desperately needed to remove it before her effect on him became painfully obvious.

He let it stay.

"Pretty eyes that _hate mages," _she said, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "How could I have done something like that with someone who_…" _she shook her head and her hand slipped away from his waist. He tried not to notice that he could still feel exactly where her fingers had been resting, five sharp, bright points of heat.

He let his own arms drop. "I'm probably not the person you should be talking to."

"I know why any way," she shot him a look that was part amused and part angry. _"Hormones. _And pretty eyes. And…" her eyes narrowed. "Oh fuck it. And _you _you sodding arsehole."

He opened his mouth and then shut it. She started to pace, avoiding his eyes. "Three years," she said. "Three sodding years, and there have been warnings, and almosts and maybes and… " she pointed at him. "It's not just _me _who wants this you can't deny it…"

"Saoirse…"

She approached him, hips swaying, possibly no more than usual, but he found he couldn't tear his eyes away and he was backing against his desk as though she were a genlock and there was a solid _crash _as his hip hit the side of it and he was _certain _his inkwell had spilled and ink was _expensive_...

"This is a warning, Anders," she said, once she was close enough for him to feel her breath. She didn't touch him, but he could feel the heat rolling off her like a fever and his heart was hammering at his ribs like it wanted to escape and Justice was shouting in his head that she was a _threat _and he was having to fight to control the spirit's urge to _protect..._

"A warning?" he squeaked out.

She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, letting her thumb run along his chin with a rasp that was audible, together with the heaving of his breath and the thumping of his heart. She leaned up and kissed him, gently, on his cheek. "I'm not holding back any more," she said softly, into his ear. "Let's see how long you last."

She turned, then, and walked out and he was left squashed against his desk with a confused spirit in his head and a raging erection in his pants.

_Sweet. Holy. Maker._


	15. Ebb

He can hear her voice. Even through everything, the rage, the pain, the _injustice, _he can hear her. "She's the reason you're fighting Anders!" it's high and urgent and all he wants is to kill but something stops him, the figure crouched in front of him _isn't _a Templar, and he was going to…

"Maker, no!" he breathes, sinking to the ground and clutching at his head. "I almost…" he looks up into Saoirse's face, which is _not afraid…_

…_how can she not be afraid…_

Just concerned. "If you hadn't been here… I need to get away from here…"

He ran. Faster than he'd run in years. By the time he got to darktown he was gasping for breath, sweating even though it was the middle of winter. He ignored the patients waiting at the closed door of his clinic, even as the back of his brain catalogued them to be certain none were urgent, none required immediate attention, and shut the door on them for the first time since he'd lit the lantern four years ago. He barrelled into a cot, curling in on himself and gripping his head with both hands.

_How could you do this? How can you be so far removed from the man… the spirit you were? Am I that much of a fiend, that far removed from everything that is human? Have I corrupted you so much…_

There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. Justice was him, he was Justice and he couldn't ask _himself _why…

_It's me, it's all me and I'll never control it and I'll kill the people I love and WHY WAS SHE NOT AFRAID…?_

He needed to get out. Out of Kirkwall. Away from her before he hurt her - before he killed someone else he was trying to save. He could… he could go to his Calling - fight the darkspawn until they killed him and hope Justice didn't stay trapped in his walking corpse… something roiled and fought against that thought so vehemently that he nearly retched. Not dead, then. Alive. There were other cities that needed healers… but what if…

_Maker I can't be near _any _people…what if I have a delusion of a patient as a templar? What if I have a patient who IS a templar? _

One thing was certain. He had to get away from _her. _No matter what else, if this caused him to hurt Hawke he wouldn't be able to live with himself, no matter how disgusting the thought of taking his own life was to him now.

He dragged the big wooden chest that held Spellfury out from under his cot and into the main clinic, throwing it open and sorting through what he would need.

"Throwing everything out won't make you feel better," her voice was soft and sardonic, from the doorway. He almost laughed. Of course she'd followed him.

"_Should _I feel better?" he said, stopping and turning, standing up slowly. His hands were shaking and his heart was thumping painfully against his chest.

"You could wallow is self pity for the rest of your life if you prefer. Personally I think that might get boring after a while."

_Maker's Breath, that smirk, how can she be _joking! "It's all gone wrong. Justice and I. We're just a monster." He shook his head, seeing again the terrified face of the girl. One moment more, one _moment _and he would have plunged his staff through her chest.

And for what? A paranoid delusion… she'd been a _victim _and he would have _slaughtered _her.

She folded her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow at him. "So you're just giving up?"

"You saw what happened. If you hadn't been there I would have…"

"You were out of control," she said bluntly. He winced, looking back down at his hands. "But even then…" he looked up to see her eyes soften. "Even _then _you heard what I was saying, Anders. You controlled yourself. She's alive. She's free of the circle and the Templars. Thanks to you."

"But I almost…."

"Almost being the operative word here, Anders. You stopped yourself."

"No. _You _stopped me."

She sighed and looked away. "From what you told me, even that wouldn't have been possible not long ago. Can we focus on the positives here? Because otherwise we may as well just… jump off a cliff or something."

"There are positives? Forgive me if I'm having trouble locating them."

She crossed the distance between them in one stride and grabbed his chin, pulling his face close to her. He froze, terrified if he moved he'd somehow alert Justice and she'd be seen as a _threat. _

"I will _not _let you lose yourself, Anders. That's a promise."

"I lost… _we_ lost ourselves four years ago, Saoirse," he said softly. "The person… _people_ you're trying to save don't exist any more."

"I don't give a shit who you _were _Anders. I care who you are _now. _And that person is still here and _that _person is worth a lot more than the crap you're putting him through." Her strong fingers shook his chin, then let it go and trailed her thumb across his lips, so slowly and gently that he could barely believe it was happening. Instinct was telling him to open his mouth, take the finger in it and suck, brush that lock of bright hair away from her neck and cup it, pull her forward…

… they would kiss and it would be gentle, and slow and it would wash away the fear and the uncertainty and he would be allowed to just _feel _and _taste _and _touch…_ the images unfolded in his mind the way they had been doing with alarming regularity since she laid down her challenge but he had _almost killed _and she was a _dangerous distraction _and he _had to get away… _

He couldn't pull back. It was taking all of his willpower to stop himself from kissing her. "Did you… uh… find anything on Ser Alrik? Or was the tranquil solution another one of my paranoid delusions?"

She looked pained. "It existed. But it was Alrik's. No one else's." She dropped her hand and reached into one of the many pouches on her belt, taking out a letter and handing it to him. He took it, somewhat desperately, and scanned the words.

"The Grand Cleric… _rejected…_the Divine… _rejected…" _Justice stirred. It was not what he'd expected. Not what either of them had expected. That they still had this much humanity in them… that they were _capable _of seeing mages as more than a problem to be dealt with... "Perhaps the Grand Cleric is more reasonable than I thought." He tapped the paper against his lips, desire forgotten as his mind ticked over. He could talk to her. He could _reason _with her… If he could get his thoughts in order and make some sort of argument that would convince…

Saoirse was still standing there, watching him. Her pained expression had turned wistful and he felt a momentary rush of guilt, that the game they were playing had paled into insignificance at her news and the old Anders _mourned _at the lost opportunity.

She was a _distraction._

She was _not afraid._

She was a symbol of how mages could be free and he was a dangerous abomination.

Something cracked. A decision was made without any conscious thought. Somewhere between _I need to get away from here _and _she's the one bright light in this Maker-forsaken place _his mind had asked the question. _Please. Can I have this one thing for myself? _

The answer, when it came, was so clear it startled him. He thought he could even hear the voice of his old friend, a hint of disapproval, coloured with fond exasperation nonetheless.

_Yes._

"Tha..Thank you," he managed to choke out, and it was a thank you not just to her. "You've given me a lot to think about."

She smiled then, a little quirk of her lips that he ached to kiss, and glanced down at his trunk. "Not leaving then?"

He frowned. "I could have killed her," he said softly. "But you weren't afraid. Why weren't you afraid?"

"I knew you wouldn't."

"_How?"_

She stepped forward again and laid her hand on his cheek, gently this time. "You're not that person, Anders." He blinked as she stood on her tiptoes to lay a kiss on the other cheek, her other hand resting on his chest. His arm came around her waist and he could have acted on his decision, right there and then, could have… but it wasn't the right time, not with the letter in his hand. Justice was cowed and guilty and afraid and his relenting permission could be withdrawn at any moment… he had to be certain this was something he was _allowed…_

Instead he let himself breathe in her scent and closed his eyes, before stepping back. "I have patients," he said, his voice husky.

"You do. I could deal with them if you like?"

"No. No I should get back to it. You go. I'll see you soon." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I promise. Soon. Just… give me a couple of days. To think?"

She smirked then. "Think?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. It's that thing you do with your brain. Remember?"

She laughed, then reached up and tweaked his nose. "I'm coming back to check on you. And I'll have Varric watch you too. If you try to leave I'm going to hunt you and I _will _find you. Even without a sodding phylactery."

He grinned at her. She watched him for a moment, her eyes searching his. He tried not to give himself away, tried to keep the distance between them that he'd worked so long to keep, but he suspected he wasn't succeeding when he saw the heat of a blush touch her cheek and a slight smile touch her lips. "Goodbye, Saoirse," he said softly, and she turned and left.


	16. Corrupted

"If you keep doing that we'll end up with _nothing_ to show for on this sodding expedition, sister," Carver was whining again. Seriously, the boy only had _one_ tone of voice. She'd been poking around a few shattered chests, trying to get Varric to teach her how to pick a lock properly, but Varric wouldn't let her touch his lockpicks. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Anders had offered a complete set to her to practice with, but then Varric had eyed them and the two had waxed lyrical about who made the best (dwarves, according to Varric, some Merchant in Amaranthine, according to Anders) and she'd ended up just fireballing the damned chests.

"Now whatever was in them will be useless…"

She shrugged. "They're ancient. Anything that would have been destroyed by my _tiny, controlled _fireball would have been useless to us anyway."

"Um… we should probably get moving," Anders looked uneasy and she glanced at him curiously from where she was sorting through the smoking remains of what had been in the chest.

"Darkspawn?" she said.

He shook his head, glancing up at the roof of the cavern. "No, but I don't like look of the roof. Makes me think of…."

The skittering sound that followed after his sentence trailed away was precisely modulated to make her flesh creep.

She caught Carver's eye. He was reaching back to his sword, looking alert and wary. "… spiders," she finished for him.

"Sweet holy mother of Andraste," Varric breathed as he looked up. "That thing's as big as a Chantry."

She cast around for somewhere to run before the enormous spider dropped down on them. More chittering noises started up and she suddenly had an inkling of exactly _what _Fenris had felt that one time on Sundermount…. but there wasn't time… "Quickly, up here!" She shouted, and grabbed Anders arm to start pulling them towards the small doorway she'd spotted. It was locked. "Vaaarric!" the dwarf shoved her aside and started to work. Carver and Anders flanked her as the monstrous thing lowered itself to the ground, slowly, gracefully. It settled, it's grotesque body almost resting on the floor of the cabin, its hairy legs poking up higher than the roof of their house in Lothering. She knew there were others, but her eyes refused to be drawn away from the faceted eyes and fangs of the monster in front of her.

"Right. Well. I'm never sleeping again," she said. "Please tell me you've opened that door, Varric?"

"I can talk or work, Hawke," Varric's voice was dry and calm and Saoirse itched to hit him, but that would slow down the lockpicking and involve taking her eyes off the spider. For some reason she felt that if she did _that _they'd all be dead.

"Ice the ground," Anders said. "Under its legs. They have lots, it's hard for them to keep their balance on ice."

She nodded and hefted her father's staff, aiming it for the ground under the enormous spiders' legs. Anders had been right. Without purchase the spider was slowed considerably, although it didn't slide the way she'd hoped. She cast a gravitic ring to slow it even further and Anders hit the nearest cluster of smaller spiders with lightning.

They were too quick though. One of the smaller ones reared up and got a face full of Carver's sword. There was a sickening crunch and a spurt of ichor as her brother wrenched the blade free, and the spider reared back. Saoirse realised suddenly that they couldn't scream - the eerie silence of the creature as it pulled back, obviously in pain, made her want to retch suddenly.

"_There _we go!" Varric shouted, and the door tumbled open. Anders and Varric fell in first, scrambling backwards, and Carver followed.

"Saoirse hurry _up!" _Anders shouted. She ignored him and focused on casting a firestorm, blocking the doorway with her body. Just as the spell was released the closest spider managed to sink a fang into her arm, but Carver yanked her bodily through the narrow doorway and Varric slammed it shut.

"Ow," she said, looking at the puncture wound in her arm. "Ow, ow, ow."

"Blondie, you should have a look at her," Varric said. Saoirse felt faint and slid down the wall, wondering, suddenly, why everyone was red. They could hear the cracking, popping and whooshing of her firestorm burning on the other side of the door, but she was lightheaded.

"Poison," she said distinctly. "Venom? Stuff spiders do. Hurts."

"_Anders, _my sister…"

"Don't worry Carver, I've got it…" she called forth healing but a hand slapped hers away.

"Don't be stupid," Anders' voice was tight with… something, and his face, bathed in that odd red light, was twisted in what looked like pain.

"Hey, just a spider. No need to worry…" she trailed off as the first wave of his healing magic hit her and she gasped in mingled pleasure and pain.

"I have to… drain the… venom…" his voice was stilted, but she felt her head clearing as the magic continued to work. Anders was gritting his teeth and she was shocked to suddenly see blue cracks appearing on his hands.

"Anders?"

"Blondie… what's going on?"

She heard Carver draw his sword. "Carver, for fuck's sake, he's _healing _me," she managed to gasp out.

"Oh yeah, why's his _guest _coming out then?"

"Just… a minute… " Anders' breath was coming in laboured gasps as he worked, sweat running down his face. Blue cracks kept appearing and disappearing.

"What's _wrong _Blondie?" Varric said. She wanted to pull her arm away, but his grip was iron and the magic didn't falter until the puncture wound was closed. As soon as it was, however, he dropped it like it burned him and _skittered _to the middle of the room, clutching at his head and groaning.

She had a moment, then to look around the close cave they were in and blinked. They'd become accustomed in the week or so they'd been underground to the occasional lyrium veins in the walls. Anders had shifted away from them whenever they'd turned up, wincing sometimes as the song in his head screeched at him. She also observed the slight hesitation every time they had to pass through a particularly close tunnel.

This was different though. She glanced at the walls and was suddenly aware of where the red light was coming from. "Varric… what's… what's that in the walls?

The dwarf glanced at the red veins dissecting the rock. "Looks like lyrium, but it's the wrong colour," Varric said. He moved to one wall and put out a hand. "Definitely lyrium."

"It's lyrium," Anders voice was anguished, the blue cracks pulsing now, as though Justice wanted to crawl out of his skin. "Corrupted. Tainted… something's _happened _to it. I don't know what but… gah…"

"Anders…"

"We should knock him out," Carver said. Saoirse glared at him. "What? He's dangerous - _look _at him. Last time he did that he killed six Templars with one spell!"

"Anders isn't going to attack us, you turd," she snapped at him.

Anders shook his head and brought his knees up to his chest. "No. No he's right. Justice can't stand the sound. You need to… "

Her brother grinned and hefted his sword so the pommel faced the back of Anders' head. "See? I'll be happy to…"

"Carver back the fuck up, all right?" She shoved him out of the way and knelt beside Anders, touching his arm gently. "Can you not control it? I can put you to sleep but will that even _work_ on Justice?"

His eyes caught hers, and they were bright, but still brown. "Worth a try," he managed to grind out. She nodded and murmured the spell, and Anders sighed in relief as he sank backwards onto the ground.

"Seriously, sister, the mage causes more trouble than he's worth."

"Shut up, Carver," she hissed. "You'd be dead three times over if he hadn't come with us."

"Hawke's right, Junior," Varric said from where he was examining one of the red veins, and she could hear the grin in his voice. "Just because you're threatened by his big, pretty, eyes…"

"Maker, Varric, I get the point."

"Just remember what will happen to you if you hurt him, brother," she said, running a hand absently through the blond strands at Anders' forehead.

"Just because you want to get into his pants doesn't mean the rest of us should be put in danger!"

Varric clocked Carver on the back of the head with the stock of Bianca, but it was absent minded, and, Saoirse thought bitterly, wouldn't have even made the blockhead _flinch. _"Hawke, come and look at this."

She got up, reluctantly, and went to where Varric was examining the wall. "It's lyrium all right. But it feels different. My stone sense is shit - not enough time down here. If Bartrand was about we could ask him. But you're a mage. What do _you _make of it?"

She put out a hand, feeling the familiar thrum of power that came with lyrium in its raw form, then gasped as it seemed to snake into her mind and flush her with power. "Ooh. Pretty," she said, her head spinning a little.

"Hawke?"

"Mmmm," it was difficult to get words to come out of her mouth, the tang of lyrium and power filled her senses and she had the sudden urge to cast every spell she'd ever learned.

"Sister," Carver's hand was on her arm and she was wrenched back from the wall. She turned her head drunkenly and focused on her brother, his eyes dark with worry. "Your pet mage said it was _corrupted. _I don't think you should be using it to get _high."_

She blinked a few times, then shook her head to clear it, and wiggled her fingers, stepping back from the wall. "I think we should get out of here," she said. What ever is making that lyrium red… isn't… it's…"

"Glow-boy here isn't going to wake up for a while," Carver said, nudging Anders' still form with his booted foot, a little heavily for Saoirse's tastes.

"Well you and Varric will have to carry him. I don't think I want him waking up here any way. Not with how Justice reacted."

"Do I get to drag him?"

"Carver, is it _possible _for you to open your mouth without being a complete tit?"

The firestorm had done it's work. Only two of the spiders were still twitching when they finally opened the door and Carver made sure to stab them in their brain casings as they passed. She ended up carrying Anders' legs - the mage was painfully light, and the height disparity between Carver and Varric would have made things too difficult otherwise.

"Ha! Do you think Blondie eats at _all_ Hawke? He's lighter than _Daisy." _

She blushed, feeling suddenly responsible for the unconscious healer's condition. "He doesn't get much time, you know."

"Or money," Varric said. "Hopefully this trip will set him up. He can open a fancy clinic in hightown for the nobles."

"I don't think that's why he does it, Varric," she said, remembering the first time they'd met. _If I wanted money I've been going about it all wrong…_

The dwarf sighed. "I know. I know. I'd just…"

"If we make enough out of this expedition, _I'll _pay off the coterie, Varric. You don't have to look after all of us the way you do. Much as it's appreciated."

Varric snorted. "Didn't think you knew about that."

"By 'pay off' she means 'slaughter'," Carver said. "You know that, right Varric?"

Varric sighed. "Just… don't tell me about it Junior. I have enough trouble with the coterie as it is."

"Not after I firestorm them all, you won't, Varric," Saoirse said cheerfully, trying to forget the insidious feeling of power she'd felt in the red lyrium room. It was what she'd always imagined the touch of a demon would feel like.

"How far away do we need to get do you think?" Varric said.

"He didn't seem affected by it out here," Saoirse said. "But I don't really want to set up a camp in the middle of roasted spiders."

"True."

They carried Anders to the cavern before and laid him out gently. She found herself with his head in her lap, not through any conscious decision. It was very hard not to run her fingers through his hair, which had come loose from its tie. It felt soft and slightly greasy under her fingers.

Varric and Carver were pointedly facing away from her, so didn't see when Anders stirred and blinked.

"Morning!" she said brightly, but not loudly enough to attract their attention. He smiled. A soft smile that made her chest hurt.

"What did I do to deserve this wake up?" he asked.

She smiled, hoping the light was too dim for him to see her blush. "Healed my arm and went mad," she said, wiggling her fingers at him. "We carried you away from the room. The lyrium in it…"

He frowned and sat up, running a hand through the hair she'd been so tempted to caress earlier. He seemed irritated and started fishing in his pockets, pulling out a leather tie and gathering up his hair again. She gave a little sigh of disappointment.

He didn't notice, though. "It was singing again, but… Justice didn't like it. Not at all. Corrupted I think."

She nodded. "I felt it. It… seemed more powerful somehow… than normal lyrium. Not that I've had huge amounts of experience with normal lyrium, just… "

He grabbed her hand suddenly. "Don't touch it. Justice thinks it's dangerous."

She nodded, biting her lip. "If you say so." He seemed to realise he was holding her hand then, and dropped it, hastily.

"Blondie's awake," she heard Varric saying to Carver. "Best get going."

His eyes slid from hers, a blush heating his cheeks and she heaved a sigh and got to her feet.

"Right."


	17. Discussions

She left Anders tending to the apostate's wounds, once she was sure the hysterical girl was unconscious. Anders gave her a grateful look. "Come back in a moment?" he said. "I don't think she'll want to wake up alone with me. And I know she won't want to wake up alone…"

She nodded, then climbed up the entrance to the slaver caverns. Sebastian and Fenris were waiting for them, making sure they weren't ambushed by more of the bastards. There was no money in this little side operation of theirs, but she was grateful the archer was able to spare the time when Varric was unavailable.

Fenris was always willing, of course. Relations between the two of them had smoothed, somewhat, since Anders had moved in. They rarely spoke, but there was none of the charged violence left, and he obviously appreciated the opportunities she afforded him, both for coin and revenge against the slavers he hated so much.

She clambered up the steep slope to the entrance, hearing the soft tones of Sebastian's brogue floating down, and smiled. He was a good man, Sebastian, despite his constant attempts to get her to be devout. She was willing to put up with the crushing boredom of the grand cleric's little "chats" because it made him happy and his gentle attempts to convert Fenris always made her smile.

When she caught the word "abomination" however, she froze. Still out of sight, she pressed herself into the ground and listened in increasing outrage.

"It's our duty to tell the templars," Sebastian was saying.

"Then why haven't you done it?" Fenris sounded drily amused, but then, that was little different to how he normally sounded.

Sebastian heaved a heavy sight. "I guess I was hoping they would come to it on their own."

"And then you wouldn't have to betray Hawke's friends?"

"That's not reason enough to allow a maleficar to walk free." _What?_ There was a long silence, in which she could hear the archer shifting from foot to foot. "Which of us should do it? Should we draw lots?"

"Nuh uh. You want to turn them in, you work it out with Hawke."

The pair fell silent and Saoirse stayed where she was, breath suddenly heaving in her chest and heart pounding in fear. _That's not reason enough to allow a maleficar to walk free. _Anders. Merrill. They were both maleficar, although she doubted what Anders was came under any strict Templar definition other than _kill on sight _and Sebastian was talking about _turning them in._

"Saoirse?" Anders' voice drifted up from the cavern and she startled, standing up and turning.

"Up here Anders!" she called, making sure she made enough noise and looked calm enough _she hoped _that the two men at the entrance didn't know she'd been there the whole time.

"We'll need someone to carry her. I'm… " _not strong enough _she finished for him. Those scrawny arms of his.

"Fenris?" she called.

"You want _me _to carry an _apostate?"_

_Much rather you than Sebastian. _"You're the strongest you thickhead. Get down here."

The elf heaved a sigh and clambered past her. She had to resist the urge to hug him as he passed. Even after all they'd been through he _wasn't _going to…

"What are you looking at, Hawke?" he snapped. She stifled a grin.

_Still a dick though._

"She's back there. Be gentle with her. They… did things." Fenris gave her a long look, then nodded and made his way down into the cavern.

"Hawke," Sebastian said as she clambered the rest of the way out of the cavern. Her eyes slid away from him. "Good work back there. These scum need to be taught that we will not stand for slavery in the Free Marches."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "No. We won't," she said shortly. Sebastian frowned at her tone of voice, so she forced herself to put a bright smile on her face and started twirling her staff. He smiled then, and looked away, and she had to suppress the urge to bring the pointed aura of Li'l Leandra down on his smug, tanned face.

They walked back along the wounded coast, Fenris cradling the unconscious form of the apostate remarkably gently for someone so fearsome in battle. Anders was vibrating with energy and outrage - the treatment of the girl putting him right on the edge. Fenris, used to him in that state, ignored him. But Sebastian seemed unable to.

"You seem very angry," he said.

Anders shot him a look of pure venom. Normally Saoirse would step in here - calm him down, but today she just couldn't bring herself to care.

"And here I thought the chantry was against mind reading,"

"Did something happen to you in the circle? I understand there were problems in Ferelden."

_Maker, Sebastian. Are you that sodding ignorant? _

"Are you saying a mage can only be unhappy in the circle if demons are involved?" Anders' tone was surprisingly even. "No. It's not about Uldred. It's not about being beaten or raped by a Templar…" she _saw _Sebastian wince at that, which made her even more angry at him. He had no way of knowing if Anders had suffered that way. To flat out _ask _him - in company… especially given the crumpled and broken apostate they were gently carrying back to Kirkwall… but Anders hadn't finished. "That does happen, but I've been fortunate. It's a larger principle. The freedom every man woman and child born in Thedas have as a natural right."

Her heart ached that he could think himself _fortunate. _She opened her mouth to say something back to Sebastian about _ignorance _and _hypocrisy _but didn't have time to start before his next words sent her into a seething rage.

"You were given to the circle. I was given to the Chantry. Hawke was driven away from home by the darkspawn. None of us are free."

_None of us are free. _

_Holy sweet fucking _Andraste._ Sebastian._

"Were you born this stupid or did the Chantry train you up to it?" she said, forcing her tone light.

Sebastian looked at her, eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"

"Are you seriously comparing your time in the Chantry to Anders' time in the circle?"

"Well… yes…I…"

Anders gave her a warning look but she ignored it. "So… you're comparing something your parents _chose _for you because you were the youngest son of a Prince, to being ripped bodily away from your mother in _shackles?"_

"I…"

"I'm not even going to _start _on how ridiculous it is for you to think being _driven from your home _by a _darkspawn horde _has any resemblance whatsoever to the Chantry taking mage children from their families and locking them up never to be seen again."

"I was merely trying to show how we are all victims of circumstance Hawke…"

"Circumstance in my case was a sodding _blight. _Circumstance in _yours _was just your parents being dicks."

"I hardly think insulting my _dead family…"_

"Shut up Sebastian. Circumstance in _Anders' _case is the sanctioned enslavement of an entire section of the population. If you're going to fucking compare them, make sure you understand how sodding ridiculous the comparison is first, you sanctimonious arse."

"Saoirse…"

"Hawke I don't think your reaction is reasonable, I did not mean to cause offense."

She stopped on the path. "What _did _you want to do then, Sebastian? Why did you bring it up at all? Oh, I'll just ask the trauma victim why he's so intent on stopping other people from suffering the same fate that he did and _not _expect him or his loved ones to get a little bit _stroppy _about it?"

"_Saoirse…" _

"Shut up Anders."

"Hawke," Fenris' deep rumbling voice cut through their discussion and she rounded on him, the things she could say to the elf bubbling and dying when she remembered he had stood by her at the entrance to the cave.

She sighed instead. "Yes Fenris?"

"You've embarrassed him long enough," the elf's lips were twitching in amusement. She glanced back at the Prince, who was frowning, his dark cheeks flushed with a deeper red. Anders and Fenris continued past them while Saoirse stood looking at Sebastian for a good few minutes.

"I… I'm sorry, Hawke," he said eventually.

She cocked her head on one side then nodded. Sebastian sighed and started to walk after Fenris an Anders, but she caught his arm as he passed.

"If Anders _or _Merrill find themselves at the Gallows because of you, Sebastian, I'll kill you myself."

It took him a long time to follow her, and he didn't speak again.


	18. Children and Animals

When she got to the clinic he was busy - as usual. There were groans and coughs from the many patients littered on the rough cots scattered around and Anders was talking earnestly with a haggard young woman who was holding a boy in her arms. The boy was shaking; she could hear muffled sobs and even from the door she could see his arm, hanging limp away from his body, had been very badly burnt.

"Bring him over here," Anders said in his soft voice. He hadn't noticed Saoirse enter and she scanned the room quickly, looking to see if there were any cases she could deal with. When she couldn't find anyone who was in immediate need of her help she turned back to Anders, who had managed to get the boy to sit up on one of the taller wooden benches.

"And how old are you, Serah?" Anders said.

"Mam says I've got ten summers, Messere Anders," he said, hiccuping a few times as he tried to repress the tears that filled his eyes and threatened to spill.

"Really? I would have thought you were at least twelve," Anders said, his full lips twitching in a small smile as his fingers felt along the sleeve of his ruined shirt, so gently and deftly that the child did nothing more than wince. "You're so tall."

The boy bit his lip, obviously pleased at the implication that he was bigger and stronger. Saoirse would have pegged him at eight at the most, but she was used to the children of Lothering, who were all well nourished and cared for, not the pathetic wretches who combed the Kirkwall sewers. Lothering folk may have been common to the core, but they were proud farmers, and they looked after their children. No one from her town would have allowed him to get into this state.

She shuddered, suddenly, wondering where this boy had come from, whether he'd been on the same ship as she and her family, but less fortunate in his living arrangements. He could even have come from Lothering - could have been one of those happy, well fed children she vaguely remembered roaming the fields. He didn't look familiar, but no children she knew ever had circles that dark under their eyes, or arms so pathetically stick thin.

The burn was horrific. Saoirse couldn't believe that the child was so calm. She knew from experience how much they hurt. She wondered if the boy was simply so used to pain that it wasn't a big deal, or was so tired and hungry that his energy couldn't be spared for crying.

Anders simply glanced at the mangled flesh and then back into the eyes of the boy, tucking an errant strand of hair behind an ear and giving him a wink. "I bet you can run faster than everyone, too. Am I right?" His hands were busy and she could feel him touching the fade, the slight taste of rich sweetness in her mouth telling her he was pulling a _lot _of power - enough that she could feel it even though she was a good ten feet from where he knelt….

"Da used to say I was a whippet," the boy said, breath still coming in little hitching sobs, but smiling a little now.

"Whippet? Those are the little racing dogs, aren't they?" Anders' grin widened and she felt his spells (there were _three _of them, holy maker, at once!) release. One of his hands, on the arm of the boy, glowed blue and green as he let healing and grease spread out at once, gently tugging the ruined cloth away from the even more ruined skin and letting it begin to knit together.

His other hand - the one that had been tucking the child's hair a moment before, was held palm upwards in front of the boy's eyes and she gasped in as much awe as the boy as she saw what took shape in it.

A tiny dog, running, made entirely from lightning.

The boy's eyes went so wide with wonder she could practically see the lightning creature reflected in their brown depths. "Oh! Messere Anders!"

She breathed out slowly, watching as the boy's arm became whole, even as the tiny dog ran around Anders' hand and eventually jumped to the boy's shoulder, making his grubby hair stand up with static. The boy was outright _grinning _now as the creature rolled on its imaginary back and waved paws in the air and as the final tendrils of healing magic finished their work the tiny dog sat on its haunches next to the boy on the table top, tongue lolling, tail thumping, looking for all the world like a puppy waiting for a kind word from its master.

Anders was pale and she could see beads of sweat on his upper lip, but his mouth was still curved in a smile as he smoothed the boys hair back down.

"There you are. All fixed!" he said brightly. "Spot here had fun playing with you too, didn't you Spot?" the creature lifted its front legs and yapped silently, tail wagging even more furiously before fading. Saoirse let out a small sigh of regret at its absence.

The boy's mother, who had been hovering anxiously nearby the whole time, came up then and tried to press something into Anders' hand but he shook his head vigorously and stepped back. She tried half-heartedly again, but Anders was firm and instead she muttered something under her breath and started to lead the boy out. The child was babbling and nodding, all fear and pain forgotten in the wonder of what he'd seen.

She considered, for a moment, simply stepping back out of the clinic - she didn't truly need him, she reasoned, they were going to rescue a_ Templar _after all and she knew they weren't his favourite people. But she also knew that there may be blood magic involved and she… just had no experience of it outside of Merrill and she got the impression that Merrill's idea of blood magic was ever so slightly different to whatever was behind the clusterfuck they'd found at Wilmod's camp.

She still couldn't believe she'd managed to get out of _that _one with her freedom intact. Varric had shoved her out of the way when the demons had started attacking and she'd had to play that she'd been knocked out in the initial attack. Fenris and Carver and Isabela had easily stepped in to finish the demons off with her bolstering them as subtly as possible from the sidelines but it had taken a lot of willpower not to land a few fireballs in the middle of the fight, even with the Knight Captain of Sodding Kirkwall fighting right there in front of her.

_Saoirse will you _never _learn caution… _

She blinked. Her father's voice was still so clear in her mind sometimes.

Anders had seen her and was walking towards her with a smile on her face. She attempted to arrange her face into something resembling a normal expression and leaned casually against the doorframe.

"And that's why _I _don't do anything with children or animals," she said, smiling softly. "I'd be so hideously outclassed."

The smile reached his eyes this time. She felt heat rise to her cheeks at how much a simple smile could transform his face.

It was a face made for smiling, she decided.

"Trick I learned in the tower," he said. "Very useful for when you have to tutor five year olds. They have very short attention spans."

"You actually _taught _in the tower?"

His smile turned wry. "Of course. We were all required to once we passed our harrowings. Lots of mages. Lots to learn. And it needed to be a fairly high child to mage ratio - can you imagine having to deal with more than ten kids who can fireball things at once?" he winked at her. "How did your father manage?"

She grinned then. "Well, by the time Bethany showed signs I was already twelve," she said. "I helped," she sighed. "And Beth was always the good child. Never got in trouble the way I did. Or Carver for that matter."

The smile faded. He was obviously blaming himself for making her bring up Bethany and she kicked herself. Sometimes it just… it was too easy to think she was still alive.

"Was there something you needed?" he asked, his voice kind.

_No…._ she was on the verge of saying it. He was needed _here. _Taking him away from it would… but as she opened her mouth he raised a shaking hand to push the sweaty strands of his hair away from his face and she remembered he'd just performed some of the most complex magic she'd _ever _seen and he had refused payment and he was…so very skinny under that motley collection of feathers leather and buckles he called robes…

He would never accept charity from her. She had tried to give him coin but he'd waved it away. The best she could manage was a few meals at the Hanged man, the occasional basket sent down to the clinic with spare ingredients or potions they'd collected on their outings. But if he _went with her _he would accept a share of the loot they found and if she sometimes over estimated the amount he was due when it came time to tally up at the end no one else said anything and these people… _these people _would be the ones to benefit.

"We've got a job… to rescue a templar recruit from a group of blood mages. I could use your help and expertise."

He cocked an eyebrow at "templar" but it lowered again at "blood mages" and arranged itself into a frown.

"You shouldn't be messing around with blood mages, Hawke," he said.

"You can help us, though, right? I mean…"

He sighed. "Of course. Let me get my staff."

_Maker damn you, Anders. You're going to help _yourself_ no matter what._


	19. Tolerated

He unlocked the door to his clinic with hands that were shaking with fatigue, his mind constantly flitting between what Saoirse must be telling Leandra and Gamlen and visions of his joining back in Amaranthine. The particular taste of archdemon blood sliding over his tongue like oil. The burp Oghren had let out when he'd swallowed nearly the whole cup.

The small, huddled corpse of Mhairi when he'd come round with the mother of all hangovers…

He wondered whether Justice would have found another mage to champion the cause had it been Anders lying on the floor of the throne room at Amaranthine. Velanna, maybe? Or Alim himself?

Lirene and the girls had run the clinic in his absence and it was impeccably clean. He'd left them _all _his coin, reasoning, quite correctly as it turned out, that there wouldn't be anywhere for him to spend it in the deep roads, and the shelves were well stocked with ingredients, but low on potions and poultices. He sighed, too keyed up to sleep, and decided he could get started on replenishing them. He'd told Lirene to buy them if they needed to, but it was better, and cheaper, for him to make them himself.

He shrugged out of his coat and hung it in the small partitioned off part of the clinic he called his room, closing the door. There was water and fresh clothing and he was desperate to be free of the stink of darkspawn and lyrium, so he stripped the rest of his clothing off and heated a small basin of it to wash, having been denied that luxury for far too long.

When he felt clean again he pulled on a fresh shirt and breeches, old and worn but still at least decent, and padded back out into the clinic to get started.

There was a templar there. His heartbeat now seemed unnaturally loud in the echoey space that was the clinic. If only there'd been a patient… one of the girls… anything other than that cold suited, faceless _thing _that had the power to rip everything he was away.

"I knew if I continued to come here you would show up eventually," the man said, voice smooth and oily behind the helm. Anders froze, Justice stirring. He didn't have his staff - he'd locked Spellfury up in its chest when he'd undressed, but Justice didn't need it to focus his anger. _Justice _didn't need a staff at all.

"Ser Templar," he said, voice trembling only slightly. "To what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

"Surely you know why I am here?"

"Are you hurt, Serah?" he couldn't repress the slight bitter smirk that spread over his face. "Sometimes that armour can chafe in unpleasant places, I'm told."

"And you would know all about Templars and their medical complaints, would you, _Apostate?"_

Anders swallowed, but forced his tone light. "Apostate? Me?"

"Do not pretend ignorance. We have known of your presence here since you arrived. That you were convenient for a time has kept you safe. But you are not convenient if you are not _present."_

"Are you here to drag me to the Gallows then?" Anders asked, clasping his hands together to hide their sudden shaking. "Oooh, Serah Templar, you've got me all a quiver."

"No. I am here to deliver a warning."

Anders was tired, used to darkspawn attacks rather than templars, out of practice… used to the status his clinic afforded him. And this Templar… he was fast. Faster than the ones in Ferelden had been.

Before he could react he was pressed against a wall, gauntleted fingers digging into his chin while the Templar's other hand encircled his wrist in a grip that would leave bruises. The cold metal of his breastplate pressed against Anders chest and he could feel the hot breath of the man even through the small slit of his visor.

He'd gone still as soon as the Templar pounced. If the man had been uncertain that Anders was the mage he sought, that instinctive stillness would have given him away. A normal person would struggle, kick out, attempt to free himself, but Anders had come from years of conditioning - _not to provoke, don't hit back, they'll just punish you more if you do…_

The Templar sniffed, as though he could smell Anders' fear.

"So little, you mages," the Templar purred, stroking his finger down Anders' jaw. "So very slender and breakable. Who would think you hold in such a body the power to corrupt us all?"

Anders was breathing through his nose in short, desperate gasps, his eyes fixed on the door to the clinic, trying not to blink or give away any other reaction that might be construed as a threat. Justice would manifest and kill the Templar, of that he had no doubt, and Anders wouldn't _care _save that he would undoubtably then have to flee and he had things to do here… responsibilities and friends and….

The Templar released Anders face to remove his helm, revealing a smooth, bald head and cold blue eyes. The helm dropped to the floor of the clinic with an empty thud and the Templar started fishing inside his armour for something, humming slightly under his breath in what Anders was even more horrified to realise was satisfaction. _Pleasure._

"Are you not going to beg me for mercy, little apostate?" he said as he searched.

"Why?" Anders said, his voice strained. "You're not going to give it to me. You don't know the meaning of the word."

The blue eyes found his again, slight smile still playing over the bearded lips. "No? How disappointing." He paused, tilting his head and considering Anders, who was mortified to find he was trembling. "Your _friend _begged me," the Templar continued. "So very eloquent."

Anders blinked. "My friend?" A new type of fear gripped him, then, on top of the crushing weight of terror that was already making it difficult to draw breath. He only knew two other apostates working freely in Kirkwall and he doubted the templar would refer to Merrill as his _friend. _

_Saoirse._

"What have you done?" It took all his willpower for the enquiry to come out in his own voice and not the booming tones of Justice. The spirit wailed inside his head, begging for the opportunity to exact justice on the man in front of them, but Anders clamped down with logic and willpower and maker knew what else. If Justice killed this Templar, they would have to say goodbye to Kirkwall, and he wasn't _ready…_

"He wrote such endearments to you, Anders," the Templar continued. "Touching, really, how much affection you mages think you feel for each other. Almost as though you were like us. But we know better don't we?"

_Not Saoirse. _

_Karl._

His throat almost closed over with remembered grief. The feel of the knife in his hand. The red of the brand. The dead eyes of his former lover. "You killed him," Anders said, matter of factly.

"No," the templar smiled, "I _cured _him." Anders blinked, confused for a moment, until he saw what the Templar had been fishing for in his armour.

His head started to shake from side to side. "No. Oh no. _Please."_

The smile spread further across the templar's face and he breathed in softly, drinking in Anders' fear. "See, _now _you beg," he rubbed the object lightly across Anders' cheek, as though it were the hand of a lover. "They always beg, near the end." The sun stamp in his hand was infused with lyrium and power. Anders wondered, wildly, how it was done. Was it as simple as holding his head still as the brand was pressed into his flesh? "Your Karl begged me. On his knees in the end. Yet once we were done he did whatever I asked. Just as you will."

Now, _now _Anders found it in himself to struggle. "Bastard," he hissed as he tried desperately to break the iron grip of the templar's fingers around his wrist. "He's free of you now, at least."

"Alrik!"

The Templar hissed, turning his head to face the voice at the door of the clinic. Anders blinked tears from his eyes and turned his head to see another Templar, helm off, scowling under the light from lantern that marked the clinic's entrance.

"Ser Celia," Alrik said.

"Your orders were to warn him, not tranquil him," Celia's voice was full of contempt.

"And this is what I am doing, Ser Celia," Alrik said, stepping back and releasing Anders from his iron grip, voice never losing its smooth menace.

"Take heed, apostate," Celia said, curling her lips as she eyed Anders with slightly less contempt than she had her fellow templar. "You are tolerated here because you fulfill a service. If you are not _present _to fulfill that service you will no longer be tolerated." Anders swallowed, looking back at Alrik, who still held the stamp in his hand and was smiling slightly. "Is that understood?" Celia shifted her weight and transferred her helm to the other hand, cocking her head on one side. "Mage? Are we clear?"

Anders couldn't find his voice, but he managed a nod.

"See that you remember it," Celia said, then jerked her head at Ser Alrik who leaned down to collect his helm slowly and turned to leave with one last look at him, lips behind the ridiculous beard curled in a smile that made Anders' knees weak with fear.

When they were gone he slid down the wall, legs unable to support his weight, blinking and shuddering.

Lirene found him, an hour later, maybe two, still sitting there, amidst the elfroot and spindleweed he'd meant to make into poultices, dropped and forgotten when Alrik had first put his hands on him.

"Anders?" her cool voice was smooth and her Ferelden accent _reassuring. _"One of the girls said the expedition was back. Are you… " she knelt next to him in sudden concern. "Maker's breath, man. Are you all right? What happened?"

He blinked looking up into her face, lined with hardship and the impossible uphill battle she fought trying to help her fellow refugees. He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing important." He forced a smile and started gathering the herbs scattered around him. Lirene helped him put them back in their slots on the racks with that same neat efficiency with which she handled everything.

"It doesn't look like it was nothing important," she said as the last of the herbs were put back in their place.

"It was a rough time, down in the deep roads," he said, smiling slightly, his equilibrium returning. "I probably should have slept rather than try to do herbalism."

She gave him a small smile in return, patting his hand, and he remembered everything he owed her. More than that, when he saw she'd brought him a covered basket that was still steaming. "Maker, Lirene, you don't have to do this for me."

"Nonsense," she said, grinning and pushing him into the only serviceable chair. "We missed you. This is a welcome back gift."

He couldn't stop himself from taking the cloth from the basket and breathing in the scent of bread and meat and fruit. They'd been on very short rations, those last few days, and the hunger that felt like it was gnawing its way through his gut couldn't be denied.

"I'm sorry I was gone for so long," he said, reaching for the bread. "It… " he thought of Alrik's cold blue eyes and Celia's open contempt. "It won't happen again Lirene."

"You don't owe us anything, Anders," she said then.

His lips twitched. "You're wrong. But I won't argue with you." She smiled at him and stood. "I'll bring the basket back to you tomorrow," he said. She nodded and left, after another long look at him that told him she wasn't buying his 'nothing important' story. But she went without any more questions and he was grateful as he started eating the food she had brought.

He wasn't able to settle down to sleep until he had checked the locks and set wards, more paranoid about his safety here than he had been the entire trip through the deep roads.


	20. Moving Up

"Haven't seen you since the deep roads, Anders," she was leaning on the doorframe of his clinic, looking resplendent in her new, clean and expensive robes, just the right shade of blue to bring out the hazel of her eyes and the deep russet tones in her red hair.

She was… so very beautiful.

He busied himself with winding bandages and stacking poultices. She knew the right time to come to him, she always did, and he couldn't deny that he'd been hoping she'd stop by, but every time he'd thought of visiting he'd remembered the light of insanity in Alrik's eyes and stopped himself. The less association he had with her the better, and not just for his own reasons.

"Do you need healing, Hawke?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

"Anders…"

He looked at his hands, then up at her. Remembered she didn't know if her brother was alive or dead. Remembered her cradling his head in her hands when she thought he was sleeping. Remembered her helping him control Justice so he could heal Varric.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry, Hawke, but I'm busy here."

She quirked a smile at him. "You're always busy," the grin had something of the manic about it as she lunged forward and grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards the door. "And there are no patients, come on."

He resisted. "What?"

"I want to show you my _house _you grumpy sod. Can't a girl show off a bit? Mother arranged it all while I was gone, we got the keys as soon as I gave them the bonds Varric arranged for us…_"_

He smiled and took a few steps forward, then remembered Alrik's cold blue gaze. _If you are not here you will not be tolerated. _

"I… I can't right now, Hawke…"

"Oh, come on and see my house you arse. I want to gloat and possibly dance naked in the hallways and that's no fun if there's no one there _with _me."

He smirked a bit at that. "Please, don't feel you need to dance naked on _my _account."

"Prude."

The irony of that statement hit him hard enough that he stopped resisting and allowed himself to be led. After all, Alrik couldn't expect him to stay in the clinic twenty-four hours a day, he needed supplies and to eat… and…

…he was being paranoid, he knew that. But the fear was still very much with him and he knew that part of the excuses were because he truly _wanted _to see Hawke taking pleasure in something, after those last few miserable days walking back through the deep roads without Carver when he had been scared he'd never see her smile at him again…

"You bought the Amell estate?"

"Reclaimed it, actually," she said as she fumbled with locks. They'd gotten some odd looks, on the way through hightown. Anders in his scruffy coat and untidy hair was a common enough sight, but _not _accompanied by the woman Hawke had become. He felt completely out of place, like his first time out of the circle. "Gamlen sold it without the proper deeds, and the slavers that took residence here have all been… re-housed."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Re-housed?"

"Killed," she grinned at him, finally working a key in the lock. The estate was virtually on the Viscount's _doorstep, _and he glanced up at the building with some trepidation.

At least it wasn't right outside the fucking _chantry. _

She tried to open the door but it stuck, dust billowing out from underneath it. "Haven't you been here yet?"

She shook her head. "No! I went straight to darktown after I got the key. I didn't want to go in by myself, it's been nearly a year since we were in there and we didn't go above the basement. The slavers were Tevinters it's possible there's been… blood magic or stuff going on inside. You know about that. So I thought I'd ask you to come along."

She didn't meet his eyes during the last speech and his heart started to speed up, thinking of exactly why she might have asked him to come here with him and wondering why on earth, after all she'd seen…

The door burst inwards and she stumbled, pulling him with her, over the threshold, laughing and tripping on too long skirts. He was certain he'd used to be more graceful than this, but he didn't manage to keep balance, not with the grip she had on his arm, and he ended up sprawled, breathless and boneless, on top of her in the dust.

"Maker, we just ruined your dress, Saoirse," he said. She laughed under him, things shaking and pressing against him as she did so in a way that was more than pleasant and he had to blink, suddenly, remembering she wasn't from the tower, they weren't in Amaranthine or Denerim and he couldn't do the natural thing, the thing he would always have done before, and lean down to catch that smiling mouth with his…

"Are you seriously," she said softly, having gone completely still under him as though she could read his thoughts, "worried about my _dress?"_

He raised his eyebrow at her. "Seeing as it almost certainly cost more than _all _my combined possessions, _yes _I am, Saoirse."

She wriggled delightfully under him and he repressed a groan, pushing himself up and away from her only to feel a strong hand hooked around his neck. "Where are you going?" she said, tone turned sultry. "I like you right where you are."

"Shei everyone can see in from the street here," he said, the name falling from his lips before he could think.

"I'm already the scandal of hightown, let them look."

He shook his head firmly and gently removed her hand so he could stand. She lay looking up at him for a moment, hurt plain in her eyes and ignored the hand he held out to help her up.

"Fine," he said, uncharacteristically grumpy with her, and turned his back on her to look at the foyer of what would be her new home. "You're right. It _is _huge."

"Strange to think mother grew up here," her voice floated up to him and he turned back to see she'd flipped onto her stomach and was tracing patterns in the dust that covered the stone floor. She was coated with the stuff, and he supposed he must be too. Ragged and filthy, the two of them. But her sunny mood had disappeared and he sighed, suddenly, realising that he had been the cause. There was a bench, on the side wall of the estate, and he made his way to it, sitting and looking at her.

"There are so many reasons why this is a bad idea Saoirse," he said after a pause, in which she drew a large collection of stick figures and what he assumed was a mabari attacking a bunch of darkspawn with staves.

"Why what is a bad idea?" she said sulkily, not looking up.

"You. And me. This. You know what I mean, Justice isn't the half of it."

She made a noncommittal sound and started drawing flames coming out of one of the stick figures hands. Obviously her, then, he was rubbish at fire.

"I'm an apostate…"

She held up a hand but he interrupted her before she could state the bleeding obvious "Yes, I know you are too, but you're not a _wanted, known _apostate. I'm… an abomination. And I'm a warden. You… you don't know all of what _that _means, not yet, and I can't tell you but suffice to say it's… not a good idea for someone like you to be with someone like me."

"You _are _someone like me."

"No. No I'm not, Shei. I'm sorry… I'm so sorry we didn't meet before…" _Amaranthine… Justice… the circle… when would have been a good time? Truly? _

She sighed, putting the finishing touches on her picture, which now included a couple of extremely crude griffons, then got up and kicked it away with, he was somewhat amused to note, her old boots - the ones she'd worn in the deep roads. The skirt of her dress had been long enough to conceal them until now.

"Come on let's check this place out," she said, not acknowledging what he'd said and barely looking at him.

The estate was massive. Rooms upon rooms. Anders thought he might have been able to get _lost _in the place. The concept of someone… two someones having it all to _themselves_… it didn't fit into Anders' head. Fenris' house was nearly as large, but the elf had settled for making camp in two or three rooms, and the rest of the place was falling into disrepair around him. And Anders had never had occasion, not in all his short life outside the circle, to be inside a nobleman's home on any sort of _legitimate _business, he was usually far too busy running or hiding to take in the furnishings and tapestries.

"What are you going to do with all the rooms?" he said, bewildered, after they'd shown themselves into yet _another _sleeping chamber - the fourth, by his count, although he could well have mistaken a drawing or sitting room for somewhere to sleep - apparently there was a difference.

She looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure," she said. "Mother seems to think we need them all furnished. I suppose… we're supposed to invite guests over? Hold balls or something? Isn't that what nobles do?"

"Hey, my family were farmers from the Anderfels, don't look at _me _for advice about how nobles behave."

She leaned against a dusty doorframe, suddenly looking small and vulnerable. "Andraste's tits, Anders, I hadn't really thought about… what _that _would mean."

"What what would mean?" he perched on the bed, resisting the urge to sneeze.

She waved a hand. "You know. Being _nobility. _I've seen the shit that Seneschal Bran and his cronies get up to. Aveline stands guard at some of those stupid parties to make sure the drunk guests don't get mugged on their way home…" she shifted again, eyes widening. "Actually, I suspect I may well have mugged a few of the guests on their way home, Anders. We did a lot of shady things when we were with Athenril…"

"And this is different from what you do _now?" _he raises an eyebrow at her and is gratified to see the smirk that spreads over her face and reaches her eyes.

"Now I have this legitimate mage-y fellow who follows me around," she said. The smirk faded then and she sighed, pushing herself off the doorframe and turning to leave the room.

He hurried off the bed and followed after her. "What is it, Saoirse?" he asked softly as they walked.

She glanced back at him and shook her head. "It should have been all three of us," she said, and a fist clenched at her side. "Fuck that, it should have been all _four _of us."

He touched her arm. There were empty words of comfort he could offer, but they would be just that: empty. He could give her no assurance that wouldn't be a lie, and he would not lie to her, not about this.

She turned to face him, and there was a tear on her cheek that he itched to catch with one finger. Instead he pulled her into a hug and stroked her hair with one hand, remembering a time when he'd been able to do this for his friends. Her arms came around him then and she shook a little bit before pulling back and sneezing violently.

"Shit," she said. "Dust. I'm so hiring someone else to clean the place before we move in." The laugh that followed was forced, but he smiled along with it, for the sake of wishing it hadn't been.

When he got back to his clinic he was covered in dust and melancholy and there was a line of patients outside the closed door. He apologised hastily and opened the door, slotting back into the role he had made for himself, and tried not to think of an empty mansion in Hightown with far too many rooms.


	21. Trapped

The sound wasn't as bad, coming from the idol, as it was in the room with the spiders, or perhaps Anders was used to it now. But no matter how much money the thing was worth, it wasn't not worth touching. He wanted to scream at Saoirse when she picked it up and the relief that flooded him when she threw it to Bartrand was palpable.

For a couple of seconds. Until the door started to close.

"Bartrand, it's shut behind you!" Varric called, all four of them pressed against it as though they can make it open again from physical touch.

"You always did notice everything Varric."

"Are you joking? You're going to screw over your own brother for a lousy idol?"

"It's not just the idol. The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune, and I'm not splitting it three ways. Sorry Brother."

"Bartrand. BARTRAND!" Veins stood out on Varric's neck. Anders didn't think he'd _ever _seen the dwarf lose his temper before and it was all the more terrifying for being unexpected. Or expected, and then delivered.

"I swear I will find that son of a bitch (sorry mother) and I will kill him," Varric said, hands still resting on the door. "Let's hope there's a way out of here."

Anders swallowed heavily. The veins of corrupted lyrium surrounding them bathed the room in red light and Justice scrambled in his head, desperately trying to repress the _wrongness _of his song but Anders could hear nothing but the creak of rope and the scrabble of rats in a dark room.

"Come on magey, we can't stick around here all day."

_Great. The dulcet tones of a surly brat. _"Right," he muttered. "Yes. Of course."

Inside he was screaming.

He'd never had to spend this much time in the deep roads before. In Amaranthine it had been short trips - the longest the one to go down to the lair of the mother. They had been under for more than a week already and his palms itched and he sweated and he wanted _out _so badly that it was all he could do not to snap and snarl at their companions whenever they spoke.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked up to see Varric, eyeing him with some concern. "You all right, Blondie?" he said.

He breathed deeply. "Yes. Fine."

"Perhaps we should check those maps of yours again, mm?"

"Good idea."

They found a room relatively free of red lyrium strands and made camp, thankful at least that they'd brought their packs. Anders had insisted on everyone carrying their own food, potions and gear, despite the temptation to put it in the supply carts. He'd seen wardens trapped away from others too many times not to know that having a few canteens of water and some jerky in your pack could be enough to keep you alive long enough for your brothers to dig you out.

His hands were shaking as he pulled out the warden maps and handed them to Varric. Even without his a true stone sense, the dwarf was more comfortable down here than the rest of them. And there was something about his cheerful competence that made Anders feel safe.

"So Varric. Are you going to tell me you didn't see that coming?" Carver's voice was particularly grating tonight. Anders almost would have preferred the song of the red lyrium.

"Of course I _expected _it," Varric's tone was flippant. "He's _Bartrand. _But I expected him to try to cheat us _afterwards _not now. Now is stupid. He's lost his muscle, and the only warden. If he isn't eaten by darkspawn on the way back out he's the luckiest piece of nugshit this side of the void."

"Shouldn't you have _planned _better for it, then?"

"I don't know, I thought _better _of him, Junior. It's a sad day when you discover your own flesh and blood is _stupid _as well as backstabbing."

"Carver shut up," Saoirse said. "We're in trouble and we need to find a way back to the surface. Griping about it won't help."

Carver opened his mouth to respond but thankfully must have thought the better for it. Anders enjoyed the relative silence while Varric mused over the maps and Saoirse busied herself cooking a meal. She was a decent cook, but surprisingly not as good as Carver. Skills they didn't bother to teach to circle mages would be necessary on farm, he supposed.

"How are you doing?" her hand on his arm, offering him a bowl of stew, was a shock. He was losing track of time.

"Oh, fine. Fine. Just… " he shrugged. "Not my favourite place to be trapped, you know?" He drew a breath.

"Where as I, personally, have always wanted to be buried a few miles underground with no clear exit," she said. He looked at her to find her smiling and he found he was able to smile in response, some of the tension leaking away. He wasn't _alone _down here after all. And Saoirse had a way of fixing things. Things that he didn't think could be fixed, most of the time.

"Here," Varric said. "What do you think, Blondie? You've got more experience with how Thaigs are set out."

Anders chewed thoughtfully as he looked. They'd crudely mapped the part of the Thaig they'd explored and he was grateful for the dwarven habit of building symmetrically whenever it was possible. "We should be able to get around the other side," he said. "As long as it's not caved in or blocked by darkspawn."

"Marvelous," Carver grumbled from the other side of the fire.

"Hey, at least there are no broodmothers down here," Anders said, trying for levity. "Do you know how many breasts those things have?"

"I keep wondering if one day you'll open your mouth and say something worth listening to. Stupid of me."

"For you, Carver, I will never be tempted to try."

"No wonder they locked you up. It was that or tie you in a sack full of bricks and dump you in a river."

"You know, I think they actually try that with some mage children."

"Shut up."

"Please," that was from Saoirse. "Both of you." She waved a hand and conjured ice into the pot on the fire, then heated it with another expert burst of fire. He envied her mastery of fire. Even after all these years it was the one spell he couldn't bend to his control. "Take that and go wash up, little brother. I'm sick of the sound of your voice, and considering our situation, only going to get sicker."

Carver grumbled, but did as she asked.

Once they were packed up and ready to leave, he felt Saoirse's hand on his arm again. He looked down to see her eyes fixed on his, expression serious. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.

He smiled down at her. "Of course I am."

She nodded, but looked unconvinced. "Let's go then."

Varric and Carver took the lead through the maze of dark tunnels.

OOOOO

The last of the bizarre rock things fell to Carver's sword, after she'd frozen them. Saoirse swore long and hard, they were _difficult _to kill and even though they were _slow _they just kept on _coming. _As the stone crumbled and she tried desperately to start catching her breath, she was startled by a voice, far, far too deep and gravelly to be human. It was as though the rocks themselves had decided to speak.

"Enough," it said. "You have proven your mettle. I would not see these creatures harmed without need."

She leaned on L'il Leandra, heaving a breath and scowling at the … _thing _that had formed out of the rocks. It was… icky. "I think being attacked on sight gives us plenty of _need."_

"They will not assault you further. Not without my permission."

Varric looked uncharacteristically frightened. "What _are_ these things? They seem like rock wraiths but..."

The thing responded. "They hunger. The profane have lingered in this place for ages beyond memory, feeding on the magic stones until the need is all they know."

_What was it with talking monsters and foreboding speech patterns? _she thought.

"They eat the lyrium? Sounds like a healthy diet."

"Good for the teeth," Varric grinned. Carver glared at him.

"I am not as they are," the thing said. "I am…. a visitor."

She had her suspicions, but she decided it might be a good idea to ask the only… expert in the field. "Anders… what do you think?"

"It seems mostly interested in their hunger," Anders said. It was hard to tell, in the red light, but he looked paler than usual. And he was pretty damned pale normally. "It's a demon. Come to feed."

"I would not see my feast end." She sighed and shook her head, but the demon didn't seem to see her irritation. Probably didn't have much experience with actual mages if it spent all its time in the deep roads sucking the hunger out of rocks.

She would never understand demons.

"I sense your desire," it continued. "You seek to leave this place, but you will need my aid to do so."

"Don't do it," Anders said, almost sadly. "Demons will trip you up every time."

"Could be a way out of here," Carver said. "I don't know."

"What are our options?" Varric asked.

"I have no intention of becoming this thing's next _meal."_

"Most unwise."

It attacked. She'd kind of expected it, but it would have been nice to have a bit more rest. Next time she'd have to think of something more interesting to discuss with the demon trying to tempt her into becoming an abomination.

When the battle was over they were exhausted. It was something of a relief, not to have to meticulously clean the darkspawn blood and guts from their armour the way Anders had been obsessively making them every time they encountered the beasts, but she couldn't let go of a small tendril of fear. The demon had seemed sure they would not be able to escape without its help. She could only hope it was being… demon-y and not…

Too late for regrets. Too late for lots of things.

"Let's go," she said.


	22. Night Terrors

She doubted she'd ever been this angry. Although she probably thought that whenever she got this way - and this time around she was in the fade where it probably wasn't the smartest idea in the world to give into her rage…

"No," she said, facing the body of the man she loved. "No you'll stop here by all that's holy and unholy in this stupid place and you will sodding _explain _yourself, spirit. Anders said you were _one _how can you…"

"You misunderstand, Saoirse Hawke," if it hadn't been so booming she could almost fancy she caught a bit of Anders at his most exasperating, but the expression was all wrong and his eyes… his _eyes…_

"Enlighten me, _Justice."_

He sighed. "Truly we have not the time for this."

She pushed his shoulder against the wall with one hand. "Make the time."

"Anders and I _are _one," he said. "However the fade is not his natural realm. It _is _mine. Just as the waking world is not my natural realm, it is his. When I was in Kristoff, this did not matter, as Kristoff was dead and had no consciousness to speak of there. Thus _I _was the only… being… in control of my actions. With Anders it is different. It is natural, and right, that I be in control _here _where I… would live, just as it is natural for him to be in control in your world."

"But I've _seen _you take over there," she was fuming, angry and not even certain why until the … the _thing _in front of her tossed his head back in a gesture that was so totally _Anders _that it suddenly hit her, making her skin flush with embarrassment. If they _weren't _one then Justice really _was _an unwilling participant in their threesome. She felt dirty and even angrier with the man.

His voice changed. "Love, please," he said. And it was Anders, even though his eyes were still blue and his skin still cracked with the light that was his curse. "It's too hard to explain and Feynriel _needs _us…"

She snarled at him. "Fine," she said. "But don't think this discussion is ended, _Anders _or whoever you are."

He looked even more pained for a second, before standing taller and narrowing his eyes. "You do him a disservice, Saoirse Hawke," Justice said and she drew in a breath at the note of… possessiveness that was there. _Maker's Breath, what have I gotten into? Jealous spirits and Vengeance demons._

"I don't want to fight with you, Justice."

"Then do not."

She snorted and spun on her heel to see Fenris, standing directly behind them, sword drawn. "What are _you _doing?" she snapped.

"Protecting you from an _abomination,_" he spat back at her and she repressed an urge to firestorm the fuck out of the entire fade. Why had she decided it would be a good idea to take Fenris here? Oh, that's right, Sebastian had screamed like a _girl _when she'd even dared to suggest it.

Fuck this.

"Don't touch him," she spat at Fenris, not adding _if anyone is going to kick his skinny arse, it's going to be _me. "Let's go find this fucking elf."

At this point, she was almost of the opinion that tranquility would be a blessing.

_Almost._

* * *

><p>She should have realised. The trick, her father had told her when she was only a child of ten, with avoiding demons, was not to <em>want <em>anything, and she'd never come across someone who was such a mess of different desires as Fenris. If only she'd thought that, before she'd dragged the poor elf into the fade with her.

Her vague notion that it might make him understand the plight of mages more… couldn't really have turned around and bitten her more thoroughly.

_Tempted and taken by a _Pride _demon. _

"Fenris, please…" she hadn't expected the elf to swing at her so quickly, lyrium ghosted as he was and she let out a strangled cry, too late to block him with her staff, before Anders/Justice was there, snarling in rage, the blue of a forcefield stopping the elf from plunging his sword into her chest.

"You will not harm her, elf," Justice's boom shook the walls of the room they were in and Saoirse blinked, startled by the rage there, even as the pride demon threw back his head and cackled with glee.

She gathered mana and tried to forcefield Fenris so he wouldn't be hurt, but the spell was flicked away by the demon, whose power was astonishing, even for one of its kind. She had faced demons before, in the fade and out of it, her father had not been fool enough to think the Harrowing was something circle mages did out of malice, but this one was far more powerful than any other's she had faced and she was afraid.

"Fenris I don't want to hurt you!" she shouted.

He snarled and she almost sobbed as she channeled more magic into a cone of cold, not her favourite spell, but perhaps it was strong enough to get past whatever defenses the pride demon was channeling into her…

…friend.

Her spell fizzled and she dropped her hands. Justice's voice boomed again and she saw Isabela's lithe form flitting around behind Fenris. She opened her mouth to shout something… anything, but the pirate's face was set as she aimed her daggers at the vulnerable gap in Fenris' spiky armour - angling the blades so they would pierce his kidneys. The elf stiffened as the blades sank home and his green eyes found hers, wide, beautiful and accusatory, even as Isabela withdrew her daggers with a professional nod and launched herself at the demon.

_There was no blood as Fenris sank to his knees. _

"Saoirse Hawke, you must _fight," _Justice said. "I would not see you harmed."

She couldn't bring herself to move as the demon charged towards her. Even when Justice's glowing hand grasped her arm, the raw pulse of the fade stronger under the skin of the man she loved, all she could see was the slumped form in front of her. "_Please _love_."_

The elf's body faded from sight. A massive, purple, clawed fist slammed into the ground inches from her boot and she was thrown backwards.

"Saoirse, dammit!" Isabela sliced in and hamstrung the demon before the second claw could scoop up her unresisting body, and Justice swung his staff upwards, channelling a massive burst of electricity. The demon screamed, clawing at the air, before falling backwards. Isabela lost no time but plunged her daggers into its brain casing, and the demon twitched and died.

"Bela," she blinked. "Bela you killed him."

"Damned right I did, pet," the rogue said, sheathing her daggers and sauntering back to where Justice knelt beside her. "It was either that or he would have killed you and I don't know about you being all magical as you are, but I know _I_ don't fancy being _tranquil."_

"This is the boy Feynriel's dream, not ours," Justice said, healing magic dying on his hands as he realised she wasn't hurt, just stunned. "The elf is not dead. Nor is he tranquil. He will awaken back in the alienage with the knowledge of his betrayal fresh in his mind, we hope."

She let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. "You mean it won't kill us? Or tranquil us?"

Justice sat back on his… _Anders' _heels. "It will not," he said.

"Could have _mentioned _that, spirit boy," Isabela said. "It was a wrench stabbing someone that pretty so lethally."

Saoirse reached out a hand and found Isabela's thin, strong, brown arm and squeezed it. "Thank you Bela," she said softly.

The Pirate winked at her. "I'll just add it to the long list of ones you owe me, pet," she said. Saoirse laughed weakly as Justice helped her to her feet. She unconsciously ran a finger across his knuckles as he took her hand, something she would do in the waking world, were it Anders helping her, and she was startled when the hand was pulled back abruptly. And hurt.

"There is another demon close by," Justice said, and he was frowning slightly, looking down at his hand as though it pained him. "We must find and defeat it before we can hope to free Feynriel." He started towards the door and Isabela sighed.

"You know, there are lots of things I envy about you, Hawke," she said, patting her shoulder and starting them moving. "But at the moment, I think you'd be happier if you'd stuck to the old right hand."

Saoirse narrowed her eyes. "How do you know I use my _right _hand, Bel?" she said.

Isabela let her eyes flick down to where she was holding her staff and grinned. "You didn't get such strong fingers from writing manifestos, sweet thing."

"Maker's balls, Isabela."

"These things are _important."_

"I require your assistance," Justice's voice came through the open doorway, and the two women startled and followed.

* * *

><p>"I like big boats, I cannot lie."<p>

Saoirse felt this one like a punch to the gut, but she shook herself and channeled magic without thought, blasting Isabela hard before the rogue even had time to unsheathe her daggers. Justice tangled with the desire demon and it fell almost as quickly, her eerie wail giving voice to the hurt she felt in her chest at her friend's betrayal.

"Why did they give in?" she asked in a small voice, watching the corpses fade. She turned then, accusatory eyes on the man next to her, consciously echoing words Anders had said, deep in the sewers, faced with the raving insanity of Tahrone. "Can't you people say _no?"_

"The touch of a demon in the fade is more potent, especially to those not used to them," Justice said, and she could hear compassion in that voice, where previously she'd only been able to hear anger. "Had the demons attempted to pervert you, you would have felt how difficult it is to resist. Do not blame your friends. They had no defenses."

She was shaking her head. "I've faced demons before, Justice," she said. "In the fade and out of it. They've tried to tempt me and they have _failed."_

"You are an uncommon woman, Hawke," Justice said.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Are you saying Isabela and Fenris are _common?"_

He shook his head. "You are a mage. And you have been trained. Your father was skilled and cautious - better than those who trained Anders in the Tower, and you learned _well," _Justice seemed almost to be smiling as he talked. "Do not underestimate your own talents in an attempt to think better of your friends."

She couldn't repress a quirk of a smile. "Justice, are you trying to say you _like _me?"

The spirit stepped back, suddenly awkward. "My personal feelings are not relevant, Saoirse Hawke."

She frowned. "That's not true, Justice," she said. "Anders doesn't think so. Neither do I."

"It is not important," Justice said, starting for the door. "What is important now is Feynriel."

"Justice stop."

"We do not have _time. _The boy's mind hangs in the balance. We must save him!"

"Justice!"

He turned back to her, snarling. "There are things more important than you or I here, Saoirse Hawke."

"I…" she sighed. He was right. "Very well."

When he was safe and they were back in the mansion, after Fenris and Isabela had slunk away out of the Alienage, eyes haunted with betrayal, even as Sebastian's were full of smug righteousness, Anders tried to smooth the tension from her shoulders with strong fingers and light magic. She sighed and leaned back against him.

"Is it bothering you?" he asked. He didn't mean Isabela and Fenris.

"You could have explained it better."

He sighed. "I haven't been back to the fade since Justice," he said. "Not consciously, not like that. I… tried to avoid it. It's disturbing when he takes over."

"But you knew he _would," _she shifted away from his fingers, even though she ached to be touched by him, the many layers of hurt over Sebastian, Fenris and Isabela's small and big betrayals desperately needing to be eased by his clever hands. "Anders you said you were _one."_

"We _are."_

She sat up, turning to face him. "Yet you can conveniently split off into different personalities whenever the mood _takes _you…"

"No. No we can't, Saoirse. You know there's a definite line between us - you saw it in the deep roads. It's just that that line is only brought out when we're in discord… I remember… I remember everything we said to you in the Fade. I remember _thinking _it. I just… I'm different there."

She shook her head. "I… he…" He cupped her face in one hand and gently brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. She couldn't help leaning into it.

"He cares for you just as I do - he can't _not. _But it's different for him. I'm a…" he dropped his hand and looked into the fire, eyes shadowed, mouth quirking. "I'm a person with a purpose," he said finally. "He's a purpose within a person. Does that make sense?"

She laughed helplessly. "Not at all."

His lips formed a wry smile. "Well, that's good to know."

She sighed and hugged herself, cross legged now on the bed. "I worry, that's all. About us. About what he _thinks_ of us. You said he didn't approve - and I just thought then… that it didn't matter. But he's _in there _and he… while I don't think he should be driving you so hard, I don't want him… tagging along in a relationship he doesn't want. That's…" She shivered. "That's a little creepy, to be honest."

Anders looked surprised for a moment. "It's not important to him," he said after a pause. "He doesn't mind…"

She made a face. "See, that's almost worse," she said pushing off the bed and making her way to the fire. "That he could be indifferent to something that's so important to _you…"_

Anders rested his forehead in his hands, heaving a deep sigh. "I used the wrong words. He admires you. He _likes _you. I think he'd call you his friend."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "So when you're _fucking _me what is _he _thinking?"

Anders winced. "I wouldn't know."

"Perhaps you should ask."

"Saoirse…"

Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. "I don't have the energy for this," she said.

He was very still, sitting on the bed. "I can't just… talk to him like that. But… for what it's worth…" he frowned, then got up and came to her, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her. She leaned into the familiar embrace. "Kristoff, the man whose body Justice inhabited before me… he was married. To a woman named Aura. Justice used to speak about what they had, he remembered bits and pieces, you understand, nothing truly concrete, just images and feelings…

"When I first started…" he swallowed, "thinking about you he was appalled. Because it was so much more intense. _Everything_ was more intense for him, being in me. I'm not a corpse, and my feelings aren't compartmentalised into boxes that are closed and finished, not the way Kristoff's were. He thought I was… consumed by lust, like the worst kind of desire demon, and he tried to keep me away from you."

She shut her eyes. "How did you convince him otherwise?"

He laughed. "I didn't. It wasn't until… our first night that he understood those feelings didn't have to lead to something destructive."

She frowned again. "That's not exactly reassuring, Anders."

He leaned his chin on the top of her head, hands stroking down her arms and fingers entwining with hers. "The morning after, he was thinking of Aura. He envied what they'd had, when he was in Amaranthine, envied it without truly knowing what it was. Now… he doesn't envy it any more."

"He doesn't feel the same way about me as you do," she said softly.

Anders shook his head. "No." She craned her head around so she could see his face. "But he cares for you, Saoirse. Never doubt that."

She reached up to run a hand along his jaw, tucking a strand of his hair behind an ear. "I suppose that will have to do," she said, leaning up to kiss him. He returned the kiss, sighing into her mouth, and she felt the tension leaving his shoulders.

_It was enough._


	23. Battles

Part of him was enjoying being down here, even though they were trapped with very little chance of getting out, even with the mage wincing and mumbling every time they ran across that red lyrium or went into a room that was too small - Maker, they'd been in _caverns _that made the man twitch - it almost made him wander exactly what the Templars had done to make him so… _no, don't think about that…_

He felt useful. He was _good _at killing darkspawn, he's found. Good at being out the front of their little party, taking advantage of Saoirse's ice magic, dodging her fireballs, scything through the flimsy, pieced together armour of hurlocks with his sword like it was soft fruit.

It was when he took down the ogre that he started to feel his confidence rise past the point it had been since the day Beth died. _This time _he hadn't been young and hopeless and afraid and everything he'd despised about himself since Ostagar. That Saoirse had _also _failed that day had been the only thing that made it bearable - but even that had the sting of mother blaming _her _and not him.

It was not the relief it should have been.

He wanted to be the one blamed.

"What is this place?" he heard his sister asking Varric. They'd been traveling for days since Bartrand's betrayal - running into darkspawn and profane and mouthy abominations (_not _counting Anders) and conversation was rare.

"This is the vault," Varric's voice. "The dwarves would have brought their…" The noise of rocks bashing together was the stuff of nightmares, all the more frightening for being slow and measured thumps rather than the rapid patter that would signify the cavern collapsing about them. This was… something that _thought. _Rocks with malice. "….Oh, that can't be good," Varric finished. Saoirse said something in reply but it was lost in the noise that was quickly becoming deafening.

Not good on _any _level and when the massive rock-wraith took form in front of him Carver had a moment of abject terror before adrenalin kicked in and he started to attack.

"Carver!" Anders' voice was hoarse with strain, already. "It's held together with magic - don't bother attacking the rock, just the fire within."

He nodded, shifting Celene in his grip and lunging foward, ducking under one massive rock fist as it slammed into the ground, knocking Varric off his feet. The dwarf scrambled away, desperately looking for higher ground from which to effectively use Bianca, despite that the crossbows' arrows bounced ineffectually off the rock carapace of the magical beast.

He dodged, weaved and struck, again, and again and again. Magic seemed to bounce through the cavern with little or no reason, and even though he knew both Anders and Saoirse were experienced enough not to hit him by accident he still found himself wincing when a fireball or rock fist shot past him. Nothing could ever make one used to fighting with magic, he was of that firm opinion and always had been…

"Profane!" Saoirse's voice was penetrating.

"I'll deal with them," Anders shouted back, "concentrate on the big one."

Carver felt heat on his back as lightning arced from Profane to Profane, destroying the connectors between their limbs and collapsing them into harmless piles of rocks. He felt a surge of energy - Anders flooding him with magical vitality - as he lunged forward, trying to sever those same connectors on the massive wraith as Saoirse attempted to slow it with ice spells, and then he leapt, aiming for the glowing red centre. He _wasn't _fast, but he was fast enough for this, and as he plunged his sword into the nexus of energy he let out an almighty yell, the impact enough to shake his very bones.

When he came back to himself, kneeling on the rock floor of the cavern, he was suddenly aware of Varric's voice - faint, lacking confidence - different entirely from the dwarf's usual cocky surety.

"Blondie, I hope you can sodding heal this or Bianca is going to emasculate you."

"Shut up, Varric," Sisi's voice was choked with what sounded like tears. "We've got you."

Carver turned to them, only just resisting the urge to point out that he'd brought down the biggest thing they'd ever fought - including that sodding dragon at the bone pit, to see Anders and his sister crowded around Varric who…

Carver swallowed. The wraith had stood on him, that much was obvious.

It was the kind of wound you didn't get up from. Even with magical help.

"What happened?" he asked. Anders glanced up at him.

"We hardly have time for explanations, Carver," he said shortly.

He wanted to snarl at the mage - it seemed he was always finding ways to get under his skin - but as much as he hated to admit it - it really _wasn't _the time.

"I don't have any lyrium," Saoirse was saying, desperation crowding out the tears. "Anders… I can't…"

"There's lyrium _everywhere _down here," Carver grumbled. "Beats me why you can't use _that…"_

The look the two mages gave each other was suddenly intense.

"Justice…" Anders said, voice hesitant. "Justice could use it."

"But you can't call him at will."

"…I don't… I'm not sure. To be honest, I've never really tried… I'm too scared of what…"

"Blondie if your blue friend can fix my legs I'll risk it," Varric coughed. "Just… try not to kill the rest of us while you're doing it. Don't fancy walking up to the surface on my own."

"Varric… I might…"

"Shut up Anders," Saoirse was taking charge, and part of him - a part he would never consciously acknowledge - was relieved. "We'll deal with Justice if it comes to that."

Anders face was anguished. "Shei you don't _know…"_

"Abominations? I kill ten before breakfast. _Did _actually, today, I do believe. And Varric will _die. _You don't want that and I don't believe Justice does either."

"Sister I don't think…"

"Carver you be handy with that damned sword of yours. You've been itching to hit him since we got down here - if things go bad you'll have your chance."

"Somehow the idea that you'll be giving your brother permission to hit me isn't very reassuring, Shei…" Anders said, and there was a definite note of fondness in his tone. When had he started calling her that?

"I could always hit you _now _mage."

"Carver, be a good arseface and shut up. Anders… there's a vein right here. Concentrate for me."

His sister and Anders stood close to one of the twisting veins, their foreheads almost touching. Carver moved closer to Varric as Anders reached out one hand to lay it on the vein, looking down to see the dwarf's brown eyes strained with pain. He clutched the crossbow to him with one hand like the lover he professed her to be.

"Shh Baby," Varric said. "Blondie'll fix us. He can fix anything."

_Except himself, _Carver thought, shifting from foot to foot. _What a damned mess._

The two mages spent what seemed to be an eternity at the wall - doing mage-y things and talking in low voices. Anders was reluctant - even Carver could see that, and Saoirse's earnest, persuasive tone was only going so far. Finally he saw her take the other mage's hand in hers - the sternest of her stern looks firmly in place - and as the warden's features contracted in fierce determination Carver drew Celene and settled into a fighting stance.

Blue light flared, black smoke rose from Anders' form and Saoirse dropped the hand she had been holding as though it burned. Anders placed blueflecked palms on the wall and the small hairs at the base of Carver's neck stood on end as power pulsed through the rock and into the mage.

"Not going nuts and killing us all?" Varric's voice was weak and Carver shook his head.

"Seems not," Carver said. "Looks like it's your lucky day."

"You mean I get to die down here of starvation or suffocation with the rest of you?" Varric's smile was flecked with blood. "I'm so pleased."

"If you push it you might be able to manage death in a cave-in," Carver said, trying to match the dwarf's light tone, but failing. He swallowed as Anders and Sisi came back - Anders still glowing the unearthly blue that signified what Carver could only think of as his possession. He tightened his grip on Celene's hilt, but the mage gave no sign of aggression, merely knelt by the almost unconscious dwarf and began channelling magic. Carver glanced at his sister, who shrugged.

"Is healing me a just act then, Blondie?" Varric coughed out. "Or is this a waste of precious resources?"

"Be silent," Anders said, but it wasn't Anders' voice and Carver was taken back to that moment in the chantry…

_You'll know what to do, son, and I'm trusting you to do it… _He could almost hear his father's voice.

"You're not Anders or you'd know how unlikely I am to follow _that _little suggestion…" Varric was saying.

"Speaking will not aid the healing process, Varric Tethras," Anders said.

"Why are you still… like that…?" Carver blurted out. "Now that you've got your power boost from the lyrium surely uh… normal Anders would be better at…"

"I have the same skills, just as he has mine. I am, however, more powerful. Healing will be faster and more effective, just as all our spells are. Now please, cease to distract me with questions."

Power started flowing into the dwarf and Carver looked away - there was something truly unsettling about watching flesh and bone move back into place with nothing but the application of another will - no matter how many times he'd been on the receiving end of the same kind of magic.

Varric let out a pained groan as the last bit of magic flowed out of Anders and Carver winced. The blue glow surrounding the warden mage faded and Anders gasped for breath.

"Well now' Varric's voice was back to his usual strength and Carver saw the colour had come back to his cheeks. "Looks like I won't even have to get a new coat - although it'll take a bit to get the bloodstains out. Don't suppose there's a spell for that is there Blondie?"

"You'd be surprised," Anders gasped, on the edge of exhaustion, "washing duty was a common punishment in the Tower - it's amazing how creative you can get if it means getting out of scrubbing sheets."

Sisi laid her hand on Anders' shoulder, gently, propriatorially, and Carver felt himself tense even more.

"You did brilliantly, Anders," she said softly.

"Thank Justice."

"Could you do that again?" Carver asked. "Bring him out at will? He said he was more powerful than you."

Anders looked uncomfortable. "I wouldn't want to make a habit of it," he said. "If something went wrong it could be dangerous for more than just our enemies."

"Let's not then," Carver said, and Sisi glared at him as she helped Varric to his feet..

"Try to be a bit less of a tit to the man who saved Varric's life, would you brother?"

Carver grunted. "I wasn't…" but she glared at him and he sighed as they walked off. He didn't know why he bothered, really. It wasn't as if she gave a shit what he thought.


	24. Tainted

The stash they uncovered almost made up fot the near-disaster Varric's injury had visited on them. Packs mostly empty meant they could carry enough valuables to make them richer than Carver's wildest imaginings.

…provided they could make it out somewhere to spend it.

"You all right Junior?" Varric was standing right near his elbow. Maker but the dwarf could move silently when he wanted to. He realised he'd been standing looking at the same handful of gemstones for minutes - not really registering what he was seeing. His head felt fuzzy and _wrong _and he shook it in an attempt to clear it.

"Fine," he said, and Varric patted his arm jovially before going back to filling his pack and his pockets.

"If we're here for much longer we'll be wishing these were bread and cheese," Anders said, hefting a golden statue. Carver rolled his eyes. Trust the mage to see the worst in a situation.

"Cheer up Blondie," Varric said. 'Think of all the bandages you can buy - or all the paint - you could redecorate the clinic - put in a few potplants, a chaise lounge for your well-to-do patients…"

"I don't have any well to do patients," Anders said, grinning slightly.

"You will, Blondie. Once they find out they can go to you for their… _special _problems. You really should advertise that skill of yours you could make a _lot _of coin…"

"Forgive me if I put treating venereal disesases down low on my list of how I want to spend my limited resources, Varric."

"I'm a dwarf. We go where the money is."

"And in your opinion the money is in the crotches of Kirwall's nobility?"

"Hey - it's a renewable resource!"

"Anders will have enough money not to have to run the clinic at all any more, Varric," Carver said shortly as Saoirse picked up what looked like a tiara with, of all things, a _griffon _carved on it. "Sisi, we don't _need _that…"

"But I _like _it," she was smiling. "I could wear it while I do dishes and laundry."

"I'll be keeping the clinic open, Carver," Anders said, standing close to him and watching Saoirse as she laughed. "There are reasons for it. It's needed."

"Suit yourself, mage-y," Carver shrugged, trying to ignore the pounding in his head.

"It's not _for _me," the mage kept talking, but Carver tuned him out - suddenly more than uneasy. It was an itch in his blood, an urge to reach the surface, he thought, pulling him away from here, away from _him, _the darkspawn, the caverns… all of it. It felt like months since he'd seen the sky.

When Saoirse motioned for them to go he hefted his much heavier pack and followed her gratefully. The deep roads had been full of trouble and heartache and he wanted nothing more than to get out and never come back.

…He couldn't remember exactly when it had started - he only knew that walking was hard. He'd thought at first it was just hunger - but he'd done hunger before. After Ostagar. Fleeing from Lothering. In the refugee camps outside Kirkwall where you had to fight to hold onto a crust of mouldy bread. But this… this dizziness and nausea… it wasn't hunger.

He knew what it was. Deep in his gut he knew. He remembered Aveline thrusting the knife home into Wesley's chest, remembered the pattern of corruption on his skin…

Saoirse would do it for him. Perhaps that was why he was delaying telling her. It was another thing he'd failed at - another burden she would have to bear for him.

So he forced each foot in front of the other, willing it not to be so, hoping he hadn't been as stupid as he knew he was - after all Anders' imprecations - all his warnings about keeping himself free of the taint - in the end, Carver hadn't.

"This part of the deep roads looks familiar," Saoirse said

"We're back where we started, and in only five days. Not bad eh?" Varric's voice faded in and out and Carver realised suddenly he couldn't… just _couldn't _take another step…

"Think we could take a break?" he said. "I feel wrong.."

"I think all of our stomachs are feeling a little tender right now," he could hear the grin in his sister's voice.

"I'll wager it was those deep mushrooms we found," Varric said.

"No. It's…" He fell. He dimly felt the impact on his knees, wondered why it didn't hurt more for a few seconds before realising it was simply lost in the aches that burned through his whole body. Taint. Blight. Death.

"It's the blight," Anders said. _Well, that's confirmed then._ "I can sense it."

"Just like that templar, Wesley," he muttered, unaware, now, if he was speaking out loud or simply dreaming. "I'll be just as dead. Just as gone."

He could feel Saoirse's hands on his shoulders. "This is just like you," she said, "keeping it to yourself."

"I'm not going to make it. Not to the surface. Not anywhere. It's getting worse."

"There might be something we can do…." Anders voice faded in and out, but the gist of what he was saying got through to Carver, enough so he tried to sit more upright. There were wardens in this part of the deep roads - looking for Anders - not looking for him. Doing _something. _Something that gave Carver an inch or two of hope.

"And what?" he said, "become a grey warden?" The witch - Flemeth, had said that was the only way to cure the blight. They'd been too far away to help Wesley. But if Anders knew where they were… if Anders knew… how it was done…

"Is becoming a grey warden a cure?" Saoirse sounded hopeful. Anders, however, did not.

"Yes, I suppose it is. But it's not without a price. One not everyone is willing to pay."

"What price? Maker's breath, spit it out!"

Carver blinked, trying to bring the blond mage into focus again. He was scowling, his usual expression, truly, but Carver thought he caught a glimpse of something else in those eyes - fear? Sympathy? It was hard to tell and the pounding in his head was so very relentless…

"The process of becoming a warden is unpleasant. And irreversible. It also means you might never see your brother again. He might survive the Blight, but at the cost of becoming a grey warden. It's not an easy life, trust me."

"What about you?" Saoirse said. "You're not a grey warden any more."

The laugh Anders let out was bitter. "You think I got away? Eventually they or the circle will drag me back. I've got no illusions about that."

"This just keeps sounding better and better," Carver muttered. Saoirse's eyes swam in front of his face and he tried his best to give her a reassuring smile.

What came out was probably closer to a grimace.

"Come on then you," she said, hoisting him to his feet. For a mage and a woman she was surprisingly strong. He had a sudden, overwhelming flash of memory - Saoirse and he helping father with the calving, the fifteen year old girl - towering over him at ten, lifting one of the baby animals in two arms, covered in blood and gunk and laughing her head off.

It was a good memory. He tried to hold onto it.

There were darkspawn, somehow he knew it before they even appeared, and somehow he managed to scramble out of the way so that Saoirse and the others could dispatch them. Then, there were voices.

"…_..Anders…"_

Bits and pieces of memory kept floating to the top of his mind, Bethany when she'd first shown signs of magic…

"_Fancy meeting you here…"_

"…_.You mean the boy as a recruit. Of course you do….."_

…Father, handing him his first sword, pommel first, smiling that damnable grin of his…

"…_..you'd be an idiot to refuse him."_

"_Stroud trust me when I say this one is worth your time…"_

Mother lecturing Saoirse while Carver rubbed broken knuckles from punching a boy who'd called her a whore…

"…_.may be as much a death sentence as the sickness and you know it."_

"…_..Take him and try. I'm _asking_ you."_

Anders in the Chantry, glowing blue in righteous fury over the tranquility of his lover, Saoirse standing firm and strong next to him despite the crackling _presence _of the spirit within him…

"_If the boy comes, he comes now. Being a grey warden is not a cure. It is a calling."_

When the voices fell silent Carver shook his head, feeling again the strength of his sister's arm around his shoulders. It was a comforting thing - the embrace of family. He wondered why he'd never felt that way before.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked her.

"I'm not sure about anything," she responded, and the next words made him blink away tears, "but I want you to live."

The warden - _Stroud _was stern faced and grim. "We must move quickly if we are to reach the surface in time," he said, and Carver tried to repress a groan.

"Then, I guess this is it," a thousand things he could say to her crossed his mind but wouldn't pass his lips. Not… _I love you sister, _or, _thank you for trusting me enough to take me down here, even if I did screw it up, _or even _Father would have been proud… _instead, "take care of mother," which he immediately hated himself for saying, but it was too late to take the words back and Saoirse was transferring his weight to that of two other wardens and suddenly he was being taken away - away from everything he'd ever known and into something new and different that might kill him…

He glanced back over his shoulder to see her standing, watching them go.


	25. Small Things

It can be hard to tell when the elf is in a less than stellar mood. His demeanor is stony, save for a few moments only she seems to see amongst the crew, a gentle smile here, a small chuckle there, the quiet languidness of post-coital relaxation, when his fingers curl in her hair or on her breast, sweat cooling on their skins, the gentle rocking of the ship's movement the only thing reminding them of where they are.

It starts with small things.

"I fail to see why you continue to run errands for the mage," he snaps at her one morning, as they leave port at Diarsmuid - a city that he despises for many reasons, not the least of which the Rivaini seer who looks too much like her mother who had tried to palm his tattoos and tell his fortune.

"I'm not running them for _Anders, _sweet thing," she says. "I'm doing it for Hawke. And you didn't complain about it when we started."

"When we started I didn't believe we'd regularly have a hold full of apostates. It is not safe."

She tosses her head and laughs at him. "You _hate _safe."

His lips twitch, but his pained expression continues on and off for the rest of the day.

He thinks she doesn't notice, but she spent too many years watching him not to realise that there's something _else _bothering him.

"Isabela!" he does _not _raise his voice often, but when he does she feels it tingle through her, straight to her stomach, lower, and she smirks, lowering the sextant as he stalks towards her across the deck.

"Fenris, I _do _wish you'd call me captain…"

"We need to make port immediately. These _imbeciles _will kill us all if we keep them on board any longer."

"What have they done now?"

"One of them was attempting to keep the hold warm with _fire."_

She sighs. "I'm going to assume you convinced them it was a bad idea," she says.

"He will not be doing so again."

She reaches a hand out, but he flinches back and she narrows her eyes. "Fine," she says. "Just don't kill any of them. That's not the agreement and you know it."

"_Vishante kaffas… _they test my patience," he says, although his voice softens. "Always."

"I know they do sweet thing," she throws up her hands. "But just think! If Anders succeeds soon they'll all be free and…"

He growls and she reaches forward to tweak his nose, laughing. He pulls away, but it's habit, not the flinch she saw before and she notices his hand twitch towards her. Later he is smiling when he falls asleep next to her and she slips out of their bunk to her table, but the course she needs to chart stays uncharted and she rests her chin on her hand and watches him sleep.

He twitches occasionally. Once he softly cries out a name.

The dreams are getting worse.

He sleeps in her cabin. He's not sure why that happened. They'd certainly never said anything… or fixed anything as permanent in their time in Kirkwall. Perhaps permanency is something neither of them wants.

_She thinks sometimes that perhaps it's something both of them need._

At night sometimes he smooths sweaty hair from her brow and kisses the freckles near her temple while she sleeps.

In the morning she wakes him with a gentle finger along the ridge of one ear - a place he has never let anyone else touch without harm.

The crew respect and fear him. He is a natural sailor, nimble, fast, strong. Able to solve problems between crew members with a quick word and a gentle reminder of the power he wields. He has not had cause to hurt any of them, but a flash of blue light is enough to frighten the biggest of them into submission. Discipline has never been tighter.

The mages they transport are terrified of him. She sometimes thinks their fear pleases him more than it should, but then she remembers how much fear he has tasted from their kind, and cannot find it in her heart to begrudge it to him. He is free now, and he is helping them achieve their freedom in return. He doesn't have to like them.

In her cabin (and she still thinks of it as _hers _and not _theirs, _despite that he is there with her, nearly always) she moves to touch him a way she has touched him countless times before, yet he hisses and draws back.

"What? What is it?"

"It is nothing."

"It didn't _sound _like nothing, Fenris." She doesn't use his name often. She has many pet names for her crew and for him - almost as many as Varric - and mostly he is "sweet thing" or "lanky" or "bright eyes". When she calls him Fenris she is being serious.

She asked him once, if he wanted to be called Leto.

He said no.

"Do not concern yourself, Isabela."

She props herself up on one elbow and looks at him, sitting on the side of their bunk (while it is _her _cabin, it is _their _bunk and she doesn't let herself examine that too closely for fear of what it might mean). He ducks his head, in that way he has, self effacing, trying to avoid punishment. It's a habit - a leftover from his time as a slave, and it makes a part of her ache. "Fenris. If something is wrong you should tell me."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Why?"

She purses her lips. "You're impossible," she reaches forward and he flinches…

…_flinches._

She frowns. "Have I… hurt you somehow? Has one of the crew? I swear that bastard Lewis has it in for you, I should never have…"

_"No, _Isabela. No one has hurt me."

She looks at him for a long, long moment.

"There, now, sweet thing, is a lie and a half. And I should know."

He narrows his eyes at her, but she doesn't back down. She didn't get where she was by backing down, didn't get _him _to come with her on this fool voyage just to have him shut off and be… more brooding than normal.

"My markings," he says finally. "They… are behaving oddly."

She leans back, considering. "Painful?"

He gives one short nod, mouth pressed tightly together. "I… do not know what to do." He glances at her, head still dipped low. "I suspect I may be dangerous." She smiles. He shakes his head closing his eyes. "Not like that. Not… the way you think." He holds up his hand and makes a fist, watching the play of white lines, then with a brief burst of concentration she sees the power flare and…

…splutter out. Like a candle. "Sometimes it does this. Sometimes it refuses to obey my commands at all. And sometimes…" grits his teeth. "Sometimes it flares without warning." He looks back to her, pained. "I am dangerous. I should sleep in the hold, away from you. If this happens when I am sleeping…"

She shakes her head. "I can look after myself. And you keep me warm at night."

"You're not worried I might accidentally punch my fist through your chest?"

"Sweetheart, it's not your fist I want in me. Although I wouldn't say no if nothing else was on offer."

He barks out a laugh. "I do not wish to harm you, Isabela."

"Then don't."

He frowned. "I… think I need to ask one of the…" he curls his lip _"mages…_ if they know what is wrong." She could feel how much those words cost him. "Danarius… used to make me do things. He always said he was maintaining the lyrium, whatever that meant. I thought it was just an excuse for him to hurt me. But… perhaps I…" he swallows, obviously not liking the train of his own thoughts, "perhaps I _needed_ it?"

She winced at the mention of his former master. Few things had given her greater pleasure than watching Fenris snap the magister's neck. "These are circle mages, Fenris," she says, sitting up and resting her elbows on her knees. "I doubt they'd know much about Tevinter rituals. And didn't you say Danarius was the only one who had ever done this?"

"Well, I can't ask _him, _can I?" Fenris snarls.

She leans back and laughs - forcing the sound light. "Naturally not, since you very convincingly killed him. And I'm not willing to take the ship to Tevinter to ask any of his… _colleagues_, unless you think that's the only option?"

He looks at his hands and takes a deep breath. "I can go by myself, if I have to. I got away once."

The idea she has will probably be about as popular as going to Tevinter with him, but she has to voice it. "Anders might know."

The temper explosion isn't quite as bad as she was expecting.

But it _is _bad.


	26. Sanctuary

It happens more and more often. He is running out of ways to hide it from her. It is a good thing they have left the ship moored safely behind them, traveling towards Orzammar overland, because in the close confines of that environment _someone _would have been hurt. At least in the open, here, he can be certain the only person in danger is Isabela.

And yet the thought that he may end up hurting her is driving him mad, and he is unable to hide his irritation, unable to stop himself from ordering her away from him when she touches him, when she tries to sleep next to him - things they have been doing for years, things that he knows are as natural to _her _as breathing. She complains, bitterly, and occasionally he relents, but there are things he will no longer risk and she jokes that if they don't reach Anders soon _she'll _start magically fisting herself and he laughs a little, at that, glad the mages are out of earshot.

The pain he _can _hide, and does, because pain is easy, pain is something he has, always and forever, experienced more of than that which he feels now.

He tells himself that this pain he is experiencing in freedom, well aware that all freedoms are relative.

"You're not happy."

"Should I be?"

She shrugs. "Probably not. Never stops me though."

"We're trudging through freezing mountains to a dwarven city with a group of apostate mages, seeking the help of a man I despise for an ailment that was foisted on me by my former _master _with, I might add, no knowledge of whether he can or cannot help. Tell me something I can be _happy _about, Isabela."

She winks at him. _"I'm_ here."

He cannot help but smile.

The dwarves seem shocked to see him, even more shocked by his tattoos. He suspects their leader, Bhelen, would like to strip it from his flesh - it is obviously lyrium that he did not sanction the sale of, and he knows enough from Hawke's reports that this monarch considers all lyrium, even that which goes towards keeping the templars docile and under the chantry's sway, is simply on loan until he can find away to make money from it again.

There is a mage, living in the city, who stays to guide those who come seeking Anders and Hawke to their base. Fenris and Isabela do not know exactly where that base is, and none of the mages who go down there return or are seen again, save in fleeting glimpses during lightning attacks on chantry strongholds. People have come to fear them the way they once feared the darkspawn, erupting from the earth, although they are more organised and do not attack civilians.

That doesn't mean civilians do not get caught in the crossfire. But there are stories of some mages staying to heal villagers who have been injured afterwards, stories of at least one group of mages who go from town to town, not attacking chantries or templars, but simply offering services to those who would not previously be able to, delivering children, healing disease, even helping with farming.

He suspects Hawke of being with that group more often than not.

The pale, young mage who leads them into the deep roads is, he realises when they are attacked by darkspawn the second day underground, a warden. The way she cocks her head on one side, then motions them back tells him more about how much she's had to fight than anything else could have. There is a practiced ease in the way she informs them how many darkspawn there are.

The apostates they travel with are hopelessly inept, and it is up to the mage and he and Isabela to protect them. Even then, one of the apostates falls to a darkspawn arrow. They manage to heal him, but it's obvious he's tainted. A few more days into the roads and the little warden mage pulls the tainted one aside.

When she comes back, he's dead. Fenris, who knows what happened to Carver, raises an eyebrow at Isabela, who shakes her head.

The other apostates look miserable and Fenris can even find it in his heart to pity them.

He finds himself next to the warden mage, who's name is Ciara, two days after the death of the tainted mage. "How old are you?" he asks her softly. She cocks a cynical eyebrow at him.

"I don't know, Serah," she says bluntly. "They didn't tell me, when I was in the _Gallows,_ when my name day was. And I don't remember my parents."

He swallows.

They meet up with the Legion of the dead when they've been underground for a week and Fenris is beginning to forget what daylight looks like. Bela is worse off than he is - he can tell she is suffering, wondering how her ship is faring, and his heart aches for her.

"I should have come alone," he says to her one night, frustrated, sitting by their small fire amidst debris and bones and shattered armour and taint and darkness and death.

She shakes her head, smiling. "Don't be stupid," she says.

"You're the one being stupid."

"Do you want to reexamine that statement, lanky, or do you want my dagger in your gut?"

"If something were to happen to you I…"

She doesn't interrupt him. She just sits there, bathed in firelight, a slight smile on her lips. He remembers when she left them, back in Kirkwall, what he'd said when they'd found her letter. _Once a thief, always a thief. _Oh yes, he has changed since then. So has she.

He swallows and looks down. "I do not want you harmed, Isabela."

There is a pause, then he feels her breath on his ear briefly, her hand on his thigh, even though he has warned her to stay away from him…

…she was never good at following warnings.

She doesn't say anything, just kisses the skin at the base of his ear and squeezes his thigh hard, once, before moving away again. He represses a groan, stops himself from pulling her to him, because he _isn't safe, _he is as bad as a… as an _abomination_ and no matter the darkspawn and spiders and mages surrounding them he is more likely to do her harm than anything else.

It makes him angry.

The young mage has assured them they are only a few days away from their destination when he feels the flare of power. He cannot repress the cry of pain that tears through him as he falls to the floor, but he _does _manage to hold up a hand and warn the Legionnaire nearest him to stay back. It lasts far longer than it has before - hours, days, minutes, he doesn't know, although he suspects it's longer than any of them like.

When he comes back to himself he is rolled in a blanket, in camp, and Isabela is holding his hand as she sits next to him. He pulls it from her, irritated. "You should not touch me."

She pats his knee. "I know, pet. But when have I ever done what I should do?"

"You are infuriating."

"And you love it."

"Pfah."

Kadash Thaig isn't like the others. It's full of light, and there are plots where plants are growing, even livestock grazing here and there, although he has no concept of how they could have been transported through the roads. Ciara sees his look and smiles slightly. "There are easier ways to get here," she says shortly. "For obvious reasons we don't always leave via Orzammar. And the roads around here are kept _very _clear of 'spawn."

There are _children _running to and fro, over the obviously repaired streets. Houses are patched and worn, but whole. He sees a couple smiling and laughing in a doorway, another couple kissing on a bridge that spans remarkably clear water. After the gloom of the deep roads it is like a paradise - the maker's garden set underground where no one would ever suspect a treasure like this could hide.

He finds himself admiring Hawke for thinking of it. If it truly had been Hawke.

It takes a few steps for him to notice other things. A hard eyed stare from a mage in heavy robes. A man missing a leg, muttering in a corner about templars. A subtle shift in tension when one mage talks to a woman in armour - the faint shadow of an emblem that might possibly once have been a flaming sword on the breastplate.

He had known, of course, that templars as well as mages came here. And yet, it does not feel like the Gallows. There are no guards save those against the darkspawn. Perhaps… perhaps Hawke has managed to make it work.

The young mage asks them to wait before ducking into a small, neat cottage, bringing out a man he has never seen before in immaculate robes and a… somewhat ridiculous hat. He smiles reassuringly at the mages and introduces himself as Finn. Isabela yawns in what Fenris hopes is feigned boredom while the man assigns the new mages places to stay.

"Will we get to see the Champion?" one of them asks, hopefully, and Finn smiles and shakes his head. "Soon," he says, fixing Fenris and Isabela with a slightly questioning look. "She's… uh… very busy at the moment."

"What about the Healer?" another voice pipes up and Fenris has to resist the urge to shake his head. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, reminding himself that before any chantries had been destroyed Anders had spent years with no title other than that to the people of Kirkwall. He had never been warden, apostate or abomination to the people he tended.

_How many deaths are on his head now? _he wondered. _How can he possibly think he is worthy of that name?_

Isabela's fingers on his arm make him open his eyes. Finn is there, alone, the mages having dispersed. "You must be Fenris," Finn says, smiling. Fenris resists the urge to snarl.

"Must I?"

Isabela heaves a sigh. "Ignore him, sweetheart, he's grumpy when he's underground. Where's Hawke?"

Finn gives them both a look, then shrugs. "Come with me."

He leads them through the village - for that's what it is, up past a massive statue of a golem and over a bridge to a small copse of houses that are in better repair than the others. "We started here," Finn says, "it's the most easily defendable position, and the deepstalkers didn't tend to burst out of the ground here quite so much, which I can tell you now was a bit of a relief. There's only so much of their poison you can take before your skin starts turning green and oh… I'm sorry I'm babbling… haha… uh…" The house they come to is the similar to all the others, doorways just slightly too small for comfort, but the windows are wider and the door is painted a bright, cheerful blue.

"It's her favourite colour," Finn says, grinning, and Isabela frowns. Hawke's favourite colour had been red, and he doubted the abomination ever thought long enough about colours to bother with a favourite.

Finn knocks, and there is the sound of movement within. Fenris thinks he hears Hawke's voice, and Anders' and he finds his fists have clenched by his sides.

Saoirse opens the door and sees them, a smile spreading over her face that is… comforting. He doesn't like to admit it, but he has missed her, in his way. Missed her strength.

She motions them into a small sitting room, slightly untidy, clothes strewn over a stone bench near a fire, books piled in a corner and…

…carved wooden toys in a pile on a rug.

Fenris stares at them for a few moments, blinking.

"What brings you here?" Saoirse says, as she busies herself fetching drinks. "Is there a problem with our arrangements? Are you in danger of being discovered?"

Fenris sits, clasping his hands in front of him, while Isabela leans against the fireplace. She has picked up one of the toys - a wooden mabari, and is turning it over in her hands, one eyebrow cocked.

"I need your help," he says plainly. "Or more particularly, I suspect, I need… Anders' help."

"Did I just hear that correctly?" Anders' familiar sardonic tone almost pulls a groan from Fenris, "You need my help?"

He looks up to see the mage in the doorway that leads further into the house and opens his mouth to snarl at him for being exactly the same arrogant, thoughtless… _mage _he's always been when he notices a small figure clutching at the bottom of his ridiculous coat and breathes in sharply.

She has a bright thatch of messy red hair and wide, wide, whiskey-coloured eyes and she tilts her head on one side in a gesture that is so totally _Hawke _that it almost takes his breath away.

"Da," she says. "DA."

Anders leans one hand down absently and pats the tousled head. "It's all right, ghastling, these are friends."

"My my," Isabela purrs. "Haven't you two been busy little beans."


	27. Options

Hawke and Isabela take the…child elsewhere in the house (Hawke makes some quip about Isabela teaching her new words and Isabela chortles in obvious delight) and leave him alone with the mage, who looks… older than he did. Fenris had never been able to guess at the man's age - he seemed so young sometimes that he believed him younger than himself, but it was obvious now that this isn't the case. Crows feet run deep next to the large eyes, and there are streaks of grey in the blonde hair. His ever-present stubble is salt-and-pepper now.

But he is stronger - stands straighter, no longer bowed down by the dirt and despair and death of Kirkwall. They are all better to be out of that place, he thinks, even this hole in the ground is better than the madness they endured - a simple cottage with simple comforts better by far than the Hawke estate, which he hears Varric has now turned into a tavern.

"You have a child," Fenris states.

"You noticed?" Anders says, grinning slightly. Fenris feels his nostrils flare. This… is not going to help.

"She looks…" Fenris has exactly no experience with children, he has no idea what to say, "…healthy."

Anders' grin goes from sly to soft and Fenris feels a sudden ache in his chest. "She is. Strong."

"Is she a mage?"

Anders shrugs. "No way of knowing as yet," he says. "My power didn't manifest until I was twelve - Hawke's came when she was six. It will be a few years before we know."

"The chances are high though?"

"I don't know," Anders fixes him with a hard stare. "We're the only mage parents I know who have been allowed to keep their child. There's surprisingly little information to be had about that sort of thing."

"They would know - in Tevinter."

There is a long silence. "I'm not terribly keen to go and find out, though," Anders says, and Fenris snorts, smiling a little. "You didn't come here to talk about my daughter."

"No. I did not."

"So. What is it?"

Fenris looks down at his hands, at the lines along his fingers, and heaves a sigh. "My markings," he says. "They are… giving me some pain. And they are… unpredictable."

Anders' eyes widen. "Unpredictable?"

"They flare without warning. Or do not follow my commands. I have… phased through things without meaning to… I… ah… I am a danger."

The Anders he remembers would have laughed at him, he thinks. But this man simply narrows his eyes and asks,"what do you think _I _can do for you?"

He stands and paces the room. "Danarius… used to… " he stops, takes a deep breath. "He used to do things to me, with magic. Every few weeks he would… "

"Fenris… you…" Anders remains in his seat, but there is real concern in his voice. "Would you feel better telling this to Hawke?"

He shakes his head. "I.. I do not think Hawke has what I need," he says. "She is powerful, but she wasn't trained in the circle, and… I know… you spent a long time in Kirkwall, researching Tevinter spells."

"I did. But I wasn't researching ways to insert lyrium under people's skins."

"Pfah! Why must you make this more difficult?"

Anders' chuckles. "Habit, I suspect," he says. "But… you said Danarius used to…?"

Fenris clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. "Every few weeks, he would… flood my markings with magic. He said… it was necessary to _recharge _them occasionally. I did not believe him. I thought it was just another way of… exerting his control over me. Another way to cause me pain."

He opens his eyes to see Anders frowning, looking at a spot near Fenris' chest. "It hurt, when you were exposed to magic?"

"Magic… for me magic is always painful," he says.

"Even healing magic?"

"Yes."

"You never said."

"I find it preferable to be whole and alive, mage. Pain is a small price to pay for the advantages magic gives you."

"It shouldn't hurt you though," the mage gets to his feet, expression cool and clinical now - the expression he wore whenever he had a puzzle to solve - a wound to heal…

_That's what these are, _he thinks, looking at his hands. _A wound. _"May I?" Anders says, looking at Fenris and holding up a hand. "I'll… try to be gentle."

Fenris gives a short nod and Anders reaches out, lightly touching an exposed line of lyrium on Fenris' arm. He controls the urge to wince, or prepare himself for the surge of magic he knows is coming, but Anders does not cast, simply runs a warm finger along he line of lyrium, head cocked as though he is listening to something.

"The song. It's… faltering," he says, eyes closing, a frown forming behind his brows.

"Your spirit can hear it?"

Anders chuckles again. "He can always hear it. Drives me bonkers, actually, especially down here in its raw form. Yours is better, but it's still ever so slightly annoying, especially when you do that glowing thing."

As he talks, he is running his fingers along the line of the lyrium. He plucks at the leather of his armour and clicks his tongue. "Can you take this off? There's something… I need… " he heaves a breath. "I'm sorry Fenris, I know this is awkward for you. But I need to be able to feel more of the lyrium."

Fenris has tensed up, even further, if that is possible. The thought of disrobing in front of the mage is bringing back unpleasant memories, not just of his time with Danarius, but of a confrontation on the side of Sundermount, a morning after a night of something he regrets fiercely, even now, six years later.

He shoves Anders back. The healer gives a small cry of surprise that turns questioning as Fenris starts working on the toggles of his breastplate, stripping off his gauntlets first and tossing them on the one easy chair.

He pulls the breastplate off before he can reconsider and turns, facing the mage, who is watching him with a calculating eye. He has seen Fenris like this before. Many times. They fought next to each other too often for him not to be wounded seriously enough for Anders to heal, although he had always preferred that Hawke do it, there were some things he was simply _better _at - and healing had always been one of them.

Anders does him the courtesy of not talking, instead steps close enough that Fenris can smell him - leather and elfroot and magic and _man _and Fenris cannot repress the shudder this time. His hands are calloused, however, whereas Danarius' had always been smooth. Large and strong fingered and warm, where Danarius' had always been cold and somewhat clammy, with nails pointed like claws.

Anders starts at the end of one line on his palm and runs his hand all the way up to the join at his shoulder, then follows the line down his back. He hums slightly under his breath, although Fenris gets the impression it is something he is doing unconsciously, perhaps trying to sing along with whatever it is his spirit hears.

"He flooded you with magic every couple of weeks?" Anders says.

"Yes," Fenris replies.

"Can you tell me exactly what he did? What sort of magic he used?"

"Do I look like I know the difference between schools of magic?" he snarls. "It was _painful._ That's all I know."

Anders sighs. "Fenris I can't help you unless you tell me."

_"Vos tendo patientia mea," _he hisses.

"Funny, I didn't know you had any," Anders replies quickly, stepping back. "You can put your armour back on."

"You do not amuse me, mage," Fenris says, slipping his breastplate back into place.

"And I try so hard, too," the mage's mouth is quirking in a grin and Fenris has to try _very _hard not to punch the smile from his face. He doubts that Hawke or the child will appreciate it.

"You require me to tell you exactly what Danarius did?" He is disconcerted by the compassion in Anders' eyes as he nods.

"Very well."

"He would take me to a room in the centre of his estate and strap me to a table with silverite manacles," Fenris looked away, remembering. The room had always smelt of dead things. Despair. Fear. The slave pits had smelt better. "He told me if I moved too much during the process I would harm myself. Eventually… he would place his hands on my markings, here, and here," he touched each wrist. "Then he would cast. I assumed at the time it was blood magic - he had… a number of other slaves whose blood he used for that purpose, but I… could not tell you exactly what type of magic it was. I do not… I have not made a study of how different schools feel."

"No," Anders says softly. "I don't imagine you have."

"It would go on for some time, then he would stop and… replenish himself. With blood, usually, although he sometimes used lyrium the way you and Hawke do…" he shakes his head. "I suspect blood was cheaper for him, however."

There is a long silence. Anders sucks at his teeth. Shame is settling into a cold ball in Fenris' stomach - these are things he has told no one, not Hawke, not Isabela - things he would have liked to have told no one ever. Part of him is wondering if Anders is going to complete his humiliation, demand every detail of his time with Danarius, but the healer simply sits, and motions for Fenris to do the same.

"You're not going to like what I have to say," he says.

"Do I ever?"

He chuckles again, before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Lyrium isn't like other… elements, you know that well enough."

"Naturally."

"In its raw form it is unstable. Difficult to use. We cannot simply… draw power from it, at least, not easily. The refining process makes it safer, easier to use."

"Get to the point, mage."

Anders swallows. "The lyrium in your skin is deteriorating," he says. "Corrupting. When you were being… regularly infused with magic, that deterioration was held off. I'm guessing since you've been with Isabela you haven't had any magical healing?"

"Traveling as a pirate appears to be a good deal safer than living near Hawke in Kirkwall," Fenris says drily, and Anders chuckles again.

"Well now, that's part of the problem. You're not getting regular infusions of magic any longer, and your markings have… started to deteriorate as a result."

"So are you saying that you need to… do what Danarius used to do to me? To stabilise them again?"

Anders looks troubled. "I… could try that yes. We would have to experiment with what type of magic Danarius used - although considering they have only started playing up recently I suspect regular healing magic would work, no need to sacrifice any virgins or anything."

Fenris swallows. "If that is all that is required…"

"It isn't."

The mage's voice is flat and cold, and Fenris draws in a breath.

"No?" he says.

Anders shakes his head, sighing. "I'm sorry, Fenris, but there's no way to stop the deterioration of the lyrium. It needs more than just magic."

Fenris narrows his eyes. "Oh?"

"We can do one of two things," he says. "Attempt to strip the lyrium out, which from what you've said before will probably kill you."

"Yes." _Not to mention leave him practically helpless. _

"Or we can…" Anders swallows. "We can recharge it. With new lyrium."


	28. Difficult to Hurt

She found him pacing in the room of the ancient tavern they had been given - a temporary holding place for the mages until they found lodgings, and a kind of… waiting room, she thought, given the number of young mages who were hanging around in the common room. She'd gotten a few catcalls and comments as she walked through, they'd made her smile, thinking of exactly what Fenris' reaction would be to them (he was sometimes _adorably_ possessive, even though he knew she was not one to be tied down) and remembering (fondly, mostly) some of her dalliances with mages. Zevran had always said they were interesting lovers.

He wasn't here, it seemed. She was equal parts disappointed and relieved. She knew the Warden and he were sometime residents of the Thaig, but Alim Surana carried enough status - in Ferelden at least - not to be bothered by the Chantry. He enjoyed a level of protection that Anders did not, and Zevran shared in it.

"What did the moody mage have to say?" she said, flinging herself into a chair and beginning to strip off her boots. Fenris turned to the fireplace and placed both hands against it, pushing as though he wished to make the room larger and shaking his head. "I…"

"Come on sweetness, don't keep me in suspense. We're talking about the future of _my sex life _here."

Fenris breathed a slow breath, obviously trying to control his temper. Usually she enjoyed pushing him close to the edge - there was something feral and dangerous and absolutely entrancing about him when he was near a rage, but tonight - tonight there was a slump to his shoulders that she didn't like _at all._

"It appears I am faced with a choice," he said, and his voice was tight. "I can continue to be a danger to everyone around me," he looked up briefly and she caught a glimpse of green through the white fall of his hair before he looked down again, "I can attempt to have the lyrium stripped from my flesh, which will… leave me dead, or at best, crippled…"

She breathed in sharply. Anders had looked morose, when he'd come into where she was talking to Hawke and the… offspring, but he always looked morose and he hadn't said _anything _to suggest that…

_"Or," _she prompted, eyes narrowing.

He looked down at his hands. Long fingered, strong, _gorgeous _hands that over the years had learned to do some _quite amazing _things to her. Things she would never admit to him that no one else had managed.

"Or I can subject myself to the same ritual Danarius performed on me fifteen years ago," he finished.

She blinked. "What?"

He gave her a withering look. "Surely you do not need me to repeat it?"

"Well, yes, sweet thing I sort of do. _Anders _knows how to do it?"

He hissed. "Of course he doesn't! He will be working from total ignorance! But then, so was _Danarius."_

"You said you were unique," she said. "No one else has markings like you do. You mean to say Danarius never tried to do it to any other slaves?"

"I doubt he had the resources," Fenris said. "Do you not remember Hawke joking about having me valued? I am worth more than your entire ship, Isabela."

She cocked an eyebrow. _You are, but not for that._ "Are you saying Anders and Hawke _do _have the resources?"

Fenris swallowed. "Anders says they have enough lyrium. It… the lyrium I have is not yet completely depleted otherwise my powers would not work at all. However…" She pulled off her remaining boot and rubbed the sole of her foot, looking at him, waiting. Fenris' fist clenched. "What they have is granted them by the King in Orzammar. It is _supposed _to be used to help the mages clear the thaigs for him. If Anders uses it to help me…"

"Sweetheart, that's _his _problem. And Hawke's. I don't think "clearing the dwarven Thaigs of darkspawn" was ever on their to do list any way."

"No, but they are here on Bhelen's sufferance. If they anger him they could be… "

She smiled slightly. "You're concerned for their safety?"

He frowned at her. "I do not believe innocents should suffer for my wellbeing." Her eyebrows shot up and he growled at her. "No matter what I may think of Anders, Hawke has always had my… friendship. And they have a child. And… the mages here… not all of them are… " He shook his head and she smirked. He would never say the words, but the meanings were there.

She stood and moved towards him, slowly. He backed up and she rolled her eyes. "Don't start with how dangerous you are again - you've yet to put your fist through anything living, not even when you were…"

"And you would wish the first person I hurt to be you?" he said.

She breathed in sharply. _You're already hurting me. _She forced a smile, but stayed where she was. "Sweetheart, I'm difficult to hurt."

_"No you are not." _Blue light flared and he bared his teeth, before it spluttered out. He growled and slammed his fist into the fireplace, and she was somewhat relieved to hear an audible _crunch._

She put on her best pout and rested her fists on her hips. "You know, you're absolutely _no fun _at the moment." The laugh that tore out of him was half sob, but at least it was a reaction, not just… a dismissal. "Fenris," she said softly. "Here's an idea. If Anders is willing to help you, _let him help you_. No matter what else you might think of the crazy bastard, he does know magic. If he thinks he can do it, he can."

He looked at her, and his jaw worked. "Isabela," he said. "When Danarius did this to me…" he held out his arms and traced one finger over one silver line, "I lost all of my memories. I do not wish that to happen again."

Her heart clenched. "At least you'd still be alive," she said, although her voice sounded small and insignificant.

"Pfah. I remember what it was like, Isabela. Anders talks of being tranquiled - I can only imagine being stripped of your memories is as close as a non-mage can come to it."

"You can make new memories," she said.

He shook his head. A small movement, but she felt it like a blow to the gut. "Everything we have shared, the past ten years? It would be gone, Isabela. I would not remember you… Hawke… _anything."_

They stood there for minutes. It felt longer. She tried to imagine what would happen if he lost his memories. On the one hand, he wouldn't remember being a slave. On the other…

How much of … of _them_ was made up of their shared pasts?

She turned around and picked up her boots and started pulling them on.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"I'm going to talk to Anders, and you're coming with me." Her second foot slid home into the boot and she stalked towards the door.

She heard the soft pad of his naked feet behind her. "Wait… I have already…"

"No you haven't, sweet thing. You're too close to this."

"And you are not?"

"Of course I am. But if there's one thing I know you're not good at it's talking to people. I _am _however, and I want to get to the very bottom of this before we abandon you to death or memory loss."

"Isabela!"

She turned and glared at him. _"What?"_

"It's… not… _I'm _not…"

She crossed the distance between them and grasped his chin in her hand. He tried to push her back but she simply shoved his shoulder. "Don't you _dare_ say you're not worth it, Fenris! Don't you _dare. _You are _not _the one who gets to decide that."

His eyes narrowed as he pulled his chin out of her grip. "Do you intend to make this choice _for _me Isabela?"

She shut her eyes. "Maker's tits and arse, man, of course I don't. But I'm not going to let you go into this decision without knowing all of your options. That would be _stupid _and whatever else I may be, _Fenris _I am _not _stupid."

He followed her as she stalked from the tavern, how could he not? She climbed the bridge up to Hawke and Anders' house, glancing back only once to see him behind her, scowling with all the force of his broodiness. Damn him for being so…

… Fenris.

Hawke answered the door, looking irritated. "Isabela, for Andraste's sake, you only just _left…"_

"Where's Anders?" she said. "Get him out here."

Hawke raised an eyebrow and shook her head slightly. "I should have guessed you'd…" she heaved a sigh. "Hang on, I'll get him."

She disappeared into the house and a few minutes later Anders came to the door - hair mussed and hanging around his shoulders, a simple shirt and breeches rather than that ridiculous coat, and feet bare. She had a moment to think that his feet were _ridiculously _large and a bit on the hairy side, before she shook her head and grabbed his arm. "Come on, Blondie, we need to _talk."_


	29. Paying the Cost

It shouldn't have been this way — that was what Hamish thought as he knelt by the corpse. He knew it was a corpse, too — knew it instinctively before he got to it, even though it was the first he'd seen outside of a sick room. When you needed to learn healing you needed to deal with sick people, and some of them died. Death was never orderly, or neat, or easy, but in the Tower it had been… much easier than this.

The Healer and The Champion had been firm about this. When people died, they weren't allowed to disappear, they weren't allowed to blame it on casualties of war and vanish — it was desperately important that they _not _appear to be emotionless and unsympathetic, and even if it meant they were attacked by grieving families asking _why _it would always be _them_ who tried to make up for the damage they caused. The propaganda that the Chantry spread was too dangerous to the cause, and it had to be countered.

The boy.…the boy was no more than _ten._

When his mother came, running and screaming from one of the few houses not destroyed by stray fireballs, he quailed and got to his feet. She shouted at him. To save the boy, to do something that could not be done, not even with magic, and when he stumbled out a few words of sorrow he found himself suddenly set upon with flailing fists, scraping nails and screams of outrage.

"You did this! You mages and your stupid rebellion! Why couldn't you just stay in your towers where you couldn't hurt anyone? Why are you here? My son! You _murdered_ my son!"

He should defend himself, but he couldn't. There were ways to stop her onslaught, magical ones, physical ones, but he couldn't, she was right, anyway, they'd already hurt her as badly as they could, and if he attacked her he'd just be as bad as she said he was.

_You are as bad as she says you are._

The biting, scratching and hitting went on for an indeterminate time, before it was suddenly stilled. The woman was lifted from his unprotesting, punished body by a strong hand and he felt the tingle of soothing magic with that distinctive flavour that was unique to the Healer. The woman's sobs were quieted and she was gently lowered to rest against the ruins of a stone wall and the Healer turned to him, still curled in a ball on the ground.

"Are you all right?" the Healer asked.

"No," he replied dully, not bothering to look up at the man who was crouching next to him, loose limbed and relaxed, as though he wasn't the cause of so much death and destruction.

_The Healer._

_Maker's Breath, who had come up with _that _name for him?_

The Healer let out a long breath. "We have to get moving," he said. "There's nothing more we can do for the people here. The damage has been done."

His lip curled. "We won though, didn't we?" he said, shifting up from the dirt he was lying in to stop the blood from his nose running into his eyes. The woman had done some real damage, he realised then, and by the way the Healer's eyes narrowed he could see it plainly.

Magic was called forth again. He considered flinching away and not allowing the Healer to fix him — some sort of penance for what they had done to the woman's son and the others he knew would be fueling pyres that evening, but…

…they wouldn't know. And it _hurt. _So he turned his face and let the Healer's magic knit skin back together.

"The cost today was too high," the Healer muttered as he worked. "Our information was faulty. That templar patrol was supposed to be transporting mages, not fortifying a town. We were stupid to attack. We should have withdrawn."

"You mean _you _were stupid."

The Healer sat back on his heels, firelight playing across his cheek and hair. Fires that _they _had set, that mages were helping to extinguish. There were large streaks of grey in that hair that hadn't been there when Hamish had first joined the cause. "Yes," he said.

"Nice to know our leaders are as fallible as the rest of us."

The Healer raised an eyebrow, then got to his feet. "Sorry to disappoint," he said.

Hamish scrambled up beside him, anger roiling in his gut. "How do you justify this?" he demanded.

"Are you truly asking me that?" the healer said, looking at him sidelong.

"You killed so many, back in Kirkwall. And now, every day, every time we come out to attack, people die who would otherwise have lived. Is it true what they say, that you think mages are _worth _more than ordinary people? Does one of them dying not _matter _as much as one of us?"

The Healer started walking towards a group of mages who were helping a farmer round up his scattered livestock. The animals were panicked by the proximity of fire, running in circles, bleating and screaming. Mages plunged after them almost comically, trying to deal with things most of them had never encountered before. How many of them had even _seen _a goat, before the rebellion? "You went to the Tower late, didn't you?"

"I was ten."

"I was twelve. I lived with… normal people before that. I spent more time out of the Tower than most. _Normal _people hid me from templars. _Normal _people came to me for healing, let me deliver their children." He stopped and turned, and his face was hard. "That boy back there… in a year, two, his mother could have been screaming at a templar who'd come to take him away. Do you think she'd be any less virulent then?"

Hamish stopped, remembering his own parents. The shocked silence. The blank looks. The Healer was looking at him, with eyes narrowed.

He swallowed.

The Healer nodded. _"That's _why we're doing this, Hamish," the Healer sucked at his teeth and turned, sending a wave of magic towards a bolting goat, halting it in its tracks so one of the other mages could wrangle it back towards the makeshift corral they'd made. The farmer seemed grateful, even smiling a bit at the mages who were helping him. _He _hadn't lost too much.

Hamish couldn't resist looking back towards the woman, who had managed to crawl to the body of her son. His head was cradled in her lap and hers was bent down over the still body, thin shoulders shaking.

"We don't know he would have been a mage."

"We don't know he wouldn't have been," the Healer replied. "But that's not the point. Everyone is hurt by the way things are now. _Everyone. _Not just mages. No one should be thought of as a _thing _or a _problem _to be dealt with. No one should be relieved to have their child taken from them, because they don't have the skills to deal with…" The Healer sighed and rubbed sweat from his forehead. "But you've heard all of this before." The Healer followed Hamish's gaze towards the woman on the ground, and there was pain in his eyes, and determination in the set of his jaw. "It's only because we have to see what it costs that it hurts so much."

The last of the animals was herded back into place, and the mages who were healing the injured started to filter back to the meeting point. The dead templars would be given a pyre of their own,and a service. Once the mages were gone, no doubt the Chantry sisters would come out of hiding and minister to the village, and they would probably preach about the evils of the mages who brought this on them, and some of the village, the woman, Hamish was sure, would listen and her resentment would build and she'd teach it to her remaining children…

….and if one of those children turned out to be a mage he or she would be halfway to loathing themselves the way the templars always wanted them to. They might even choose tranquility over a Harrowing, because it would stop the pain of being something their own mother hated, or turn to blood magic or…

"What if it _never _ends?" he blurted out. "The war? The deaths? Every day more people… I can't… I don't know if I can… This isn't what I wanted when we left, I wanted to be free not… " _more trapped than ever._

The Healer's nostrils flared and Hamish took a step back. He had never seen… _that _part of the Healer. Not even in battle. The rumours were that it only happened when The Champion was threatened.

There was an echo of the fade in his voice when he answered, an eerie sound that sent a chill into Hamish's bones. "What would be worse, is if we'd never tried."

The Healer turned then, and started shouting orders to the mages to get back to their base, and Hamish watched, swallowing hard and clutching at his staff.

As they left the woman looked up from her weeping and caught Hamish's eyes with her own.

He shuddered, but kept walking.


	30. I was Anders before I was Justice

I was Justice before I was Anders.

There was a time when time meant little, when the sky was shimmering white and easily mutable, when mortals were a flitting presence, easily distracted, easily diverted. There was a time when my purpose was so pure and all consuming that I thought of nothing else, and I was content to embody it rather than enact it.

There was a time when I lived in the fade and not in the mortal world, when I had none of the limitations of a physical body and there was no true meaning to the word _death, _or _time — _not to me, or to anyone. Thoughts and ideas were more real to me than people. Spirits and demons were my companions and they were changeable and fluid and none of them were _important._

I could not say I was Kristoff before I was Anders. A small window was opened to me, a tiny glimpse of what the world could be and wasn't, but I wasn't _him, _all I felt were echoes. I was still Justice, but for the first time in my life I _felt _the true meaning of the word. Suddenly everything I had been before was _not _important, and that I had named myself _Justice _seemed like an act of arrogance — of _ignorance._

I remember longing. I remember wonder at new sensations — the first touch of friendship, the first glimpse of things I never knew I wanted. I remember ages of insubstantiality replaced by something solid and real and _beautiful _in a way that nothing could be in the fade, because it was fleeting. A world so full of beauty that beauty was overlooked.

I was Anders before I was Justice.

There was a time when all that mattered to me was my own freedom. The next escape, how far I could get, what pleasures I could indulge in. All the niggling little injustices we were forced to endure every day as mages were _personal _affronts, not something to be changed, just something to be avoided.

I lived very firmly in the mortal world. For all I spoke with spirits and used them for my magic, they were nothing to me but a means to an end. I used their curiosity to fuel my spells, let them help me escape detection and cursed them when they sometimes gave me away. Pleasure and freedom were all I sought, and I took any means available to get them.

I remember loneliness. All consuming and terrible and empty. I remember darkness, and lies, told _to _me and _by _me. I remember how easy it was for a mortal to fool oneselfinto believing things that are convenient, instead of things that are _true._

I was Justice before I was Anders.

I was Anders before I was Justice.

There was a time when I was two people — now there is just one.


	31. Debts

The abomination… the mage…. _Anders _ducked back inside and came out a few moments later slightly less disheveled.

"Can we walk?" he said shortly. "Liesel just fell asleep and Saoirse will roast me alive if I wake her."

Isabela jerked her head towards the massive golem statue. "Why don't we talk under that, since you know, it's not at all intimidating."

Anders rolled his eyes, but stalked towards the statue and leaned against it, crossing his arms and giving her that _look. _

In Kirkwall he'd never had the… arrogance he had here, Fenris thought. There was always a sense of impending disaster about him, too thin, too scruffy, too desperate. Fenris supposed he should have realised what the mage was planning - the mess left behind him in Kirkwall was certainly disastrous enough for all of that creeping foreshadowing.

"So," he said, eyes fixed on Fenris. "What is it?"

He bared his teeth. "Ask Isabela," he said shortly. "I did not want to come back."

Anders gave a little twitch of his eyebrows and an almost smile that Fenris wanted to punch, but Isabela ignored the play between the two of them and prodded Anders in the chest with one brown finger.

"A few things, sweet thing," she said, and though the endearment was heart felt (Fenris had never liked the affection she held for the mage) her voice was hard. "A few things that Fenris wouldn't ask because he has a stick inserted somewhere he…. usually quite likes other things inserted, but not when it comes to humbling his pride in front of you…" Fenris winced and looked down.

"More information than I needed, Isabela."

"More information is exactly what I want," she said. "One: Fenris is afraid if you do this thing he'll lose his memory again. Will he?"

Anders glanced his way, eyes calculating. "I don't think so," he said. "I can't be certain though. I _suspect _Danarius used another spell on top of the ritual to expunge Fenris' memory. If that isn't the case then nothing I do will affect his memory, _I'm _not going to be using blood magic."

"If it isn't?"

Anders scowled. "If it isn't then his memory loss was a direct result of the ritual. But even that's not clear cut because…" Anders eyes shifted to Fenris' again and then back to Isabela… "lots of things can cause memory loss. Trauma among them. It's quite possible the pain of the ritual was enough to erase Fenris' memories."

"Shit. So you're saying we're screwed? And not in the good way."

Anders shook his head. "No. I can stop the pain."

Fenris' head shot up. "You can _what?"_

Anders looked irritated and waved a hand. "What sort of healer do you take me for?" he said. "I'm not a butcher. When I operate on people I give them healing magic to ease their pain. I don't imagine Danarius gave you the same courtesy."

"You know full well he did not."

"Don't give me that face. _I've _never owned a slave."

"Much as both your angry faces give me tingles, this isn't the point of our conversation," Bela had one eyebrow raised and she turned to Anders. "You can stop him from feeling the pain?"

Anders shrugged. "Most of it. Some of it. I've… never inserted lyrium into a living thing before." The mage looked distant for a while. "I never had the stomach for live experiments, but it might be called for here. A few deepstalkers with lyrium tattoos should be enough to prove the point."

"What… you'll insert lyrium into them and see if they'll …scream?"

Anders shrugged. "Basically," the mage rubbed his stubble and sighed. "The problem is that it's _lyrium, _Isabela." He did not like the way the mage said her name. "It's unstable, unpredictable - the very reason Fenris is implanted with it could be the reason why it wiped his memory. I don't _think _that's why it happened but you know I haven't done this before so I can't be entirely certain."

Isabela made a face. "Will the experiments help?"

Anders shrugged. "They might. But my instincts… " he glanced at Fenris "and my _training _are telling me that there isn't really any pain I can't suppress. And animals are never truly reliable as test subjects - they're not human, their bodies don't work the same way as ours do. And there's no way for me to check if what I do affects their memory."

"So it would be a pointless delay?"

"I think so."

"Not to mention the extra expense," Fenris muttered.

Anders raised an eyebrow. "Is _that _what you're worried about, Fenris? How much it's going to _cost?"_

He shifted uncomfortably and did not meet the mage's eyes.

Isabela sighed. "I should have realised." She turned and placed a palm flat on his chest, pushing him away from Anders and waving at the mage to stay where he was. Anders rolled his eyes and stalked a few feet away muttering under his breath, or perhaps he was conversing with his pet spirit.

Fenris wondered wildly for a second if Justice thought this was a worthy use of his time and resources.

"Fenris you're being an ass," Isabela said when they were somewhat more private. The other mages and templars were avoiding the bridge, although he could see a few out of the corner of his eye glancing up towards them. "They're offering you help and you think they don't know what they're doing…"

"I did not kill Danarius to place myself in debt to more mages!" he snarled.

He did not imagine the movement as every head within fifty feet turned in their direction. Isabela rolled her eyes and shot a look down at the town.

"Maker's tits and arse, man, they _offered…"_

He crossed his arms across his chest. "No one offers something like this without expecting something in return."

She looked at him, her eyes round and dark, full lips pressed together, for a long moment. "That's true, Fenris. But do you honestly think Hawke thinks she owes you _nothing?" _the lips quirked in a half smile. "Not to mention all the things she owes _me…"_

"This is not a gambling debt, Isabela. They are going to bankrupt themselves to save my _life…"_

Her eyes narrowed and she put her fists on her hips, looking to the side and sucking in her cheeks.

"All right. We'll play this game then, if it's what you want." She jabbed at his chest with a finger. "What did you do, back in Kirkwall, when Hawke asked you to fight on the side of the mages?"

He frowned and looked down. "I fought with her. Naturally."

"Why? Sebastian as good as offered you a position on his guard, you could have gone with him and fought righteous wars against the unfaithful…"

Fenris snorted. "The man is a fool."

"A fool who could have given you a free life. A _normal _life."

"What do you think I'm living now?"

Her eyelid twitched. "Why did you fight for Hawke, Fenris?"

"Pfah. Why ask this? You _know_…"

"I don't. I know why I did, and my reasons are pretty much all selfish. So I'm going to go with yours being the same way, because you know I lack imagination…"

"Isabela!"

She hit him on the arm. "You fought for her because you love her, you idiot. We all do. Just because you don't want to fuck her any more doesn't mean you can't care for her, and just because she'd rather make babies with the crazy tainted mage doesn't mean she doesn't love you either. And when you love someone, you fight for them, and you don't feel like they owe you anything, because when they survive it's all the payment you'll ever need."

"I didn't fight for _her!"_

The words escaped him without volition. If he could have taken them back, he would have, but they were there now, lying between them like a sleeping bearskein.

He should have known that she would not let them lie.

"Who did you fight for then?" she asked.

He looked up. They were almost of a height, and the slant of the bridge they stood on put her above him. At any other time he would have taken the moment to acknowledge her beauty, the smooth brown curves he knew so well yet could never stop revisiting but now, all he could see was her face. He eyes were narrow, her lower lip caught between white, white teeth, one eyebrow delicately raised.

He looked away before he answered. Her gaze demanded honesty, but it did not mean he had to face her while he delivered it. "For you," he said. "You made it clear you would stand by Hawke no matter what she did, no matter what _he _did… and I… " he shook his head and looked at his hands. "I found I did not want to be without you."

For a few seconds the muffled sounds of the thaig were all that he could hear, then there were fingers on his arm and although some part of him screamed _danger _another part welcomed the touch and she was there beneath his lips, soft and yielding and _Isabela.._

Not _his_. Never his. But the feeling she gave him - the lift of his heart and his spirits, _that _was his, he could own that feeling and he would, _he would, _because in the end it was the truest slice of the many freedoms she had given him.

"Do this for me then," she whispered against his lips, and he could have said no, he knew that, and that…

…that was the reason he didn't


End file.
